


A Prize Highly Valued

by ci5mates



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:18:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ci5mates/pseuds/ci5mates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Bodie forfeit his chance for revenge for an even bigger prize? </p><p>31,785 words</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prize Highly Valued

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to 'Trophy Highly Prized'  
> It can be read as a stand alone but the premise is based on events from 'Trophy Highly Prized' and knowledge of that story is assumed. Link below:  
> [ **A Trophy Highly Prized**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/575323) (22989 words) by [**ci5mates**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ci5mates)  
> 

The corridor was depressingly familiar. They’d been here often enough, when one or the other had been injured, even the cracks in the ceiling were imprinted on his memory and if he closed his eyes he could visualise the water stain by the door, right where a small piece of forgotten tinsel was impaled by its rusty tack. Some things never changed.

Bodie's stomach churned and he swallowed the rising bile, the test had begun and it was Doyle’s moment of truth; active duty or early retirement because as the doc had so bluntly pointed out, Cowley was a stickler for the rules and his decision would be final.

Medical experts had agreed, two months for his partner’s ears to heal after the concussion from the grenade had burst his eardrums, yet none of them could guarantee he’d make a full recovery and so it had come down to this, a sodding hearing test. Ray’s future, and his own, decided by his partner’s ability to decipher sound through a set of damn headphones. If a bullet to the heart hadn’t stopped him…well it just wasn’t fair. Doyle would climb mountains to get himself back to the level of fitness Cowley and Macklin demanded, he’d proven that after Mayli’s attempt, but this was different, this was completely out of his control. The poor sod had faithfully followed the doc’s instructions, no sudden head movement, no excessive noise and regular medicated drops but that was the sum total of his rehabilitation so if his hearing hadn’t fully recovered by now, it never would and the repercussions of that frightened the hell out of him. Pacing the corridor, his mind wandered, leaping from one worry to another, of course Cowley didn’t want to lose Doyle but the head of CI5 had made it crystal clear; there’d be no concessions for anyone, not even for his best when it came to a medical clearance. 

“There are minimum standards for a reason, Bodie,” he’d answered brusquely when challenged privately. “What if he missed the sound of a gun being cocked, a fuse being lit or a lock pick in a safe house door because his hearing wasn’t up to scratch? How do you think he’d cope if he was responsible for someone’s death, yours…or God forbid an innocent woman or child?” 

It hurt having the truth laid out bare like that, he hadn’t wanted to hear it, wanted to deny that his partner could be anything less than 100% and Cowley had understood that, his voice had softened, “We both know what it would do to him, the regret…the guilt...” He'd trailed off, deep in thought, before returning to his usual curt self, underpinning his argument with his prodding finger, “And don’t forget my duty of care to Joe Public, Bodie, CI5’s continued existence relies on it.”

Cowley might have been right but Doyle didn’t deserve to end his active service this way. No doubt he’d be offered an office job, but it would be a cold day in hell before he'd be tied to a desk when he was fighting fit in every other way. That passion of his couldn’t be reined in quite so painlessly; no, it was all or nothing for him, _correction_ , for them, and that undeniable truth had him wound tighter than a ten bob watch. Flexing his fingers, he watched through the viewing window, an eye chart on the stark white wall his only distraction. Hunched over the device, Doyle was a picture of concentration, the ear phones tamping down his unruly locks. His eyes, usually so animated, were sealed tight closing the window to his thoughts but there were other signs, the lines etched on his forehead, the set of his jaw and the tension in those wiry shoulder. The poor bastard was keyed up alright, but he wasn’t the only one. 

Only a small number of people in this world made it onto his most hated list and at this moment Laaine was right up there alongside Krivas. Didn’t matter that he’d never clapped eyes on the son of a bitch, he could still visualise bulging eyes, blue lips silently begging, a pulse weakening beneath his… 

Shaking his head at the insanity this man aroused, Bodie forced his murderous thoughts to the back of his mind where his self-appointed conscious, one Raymond Doyle, couldn’t bear witness, convinced that any act of revenge would irreversibly damage their partnership. There’d be no forgiveness or gratitude despite what the bastard had…no was, putting them through. Anyway, he was unlikely to get the opportunity, the nutter hadn’t been sighted since he’d escaped from under everyone’s nose's and being a betting man he would take good odds against him showing his face in the UK again. 

Leaving Scotland, they'd headed for home with a set of crutches and a bottle of ear drops between them, falling comfortably into their well-worn routine, making light of their near death escape during an alcohol fuelled bender which, when combined with a joke or two and a slap on the back, passed as therapy. Of course Ross had done her best to break him, delving deep into his sub-conscious after Cowley's debrief but she'd never get anywhere near to the truth; would never know that sometimes he'd wake screaming, drenched in sweat, sheets knotted around him with his heart pounding like he'd just run a marathon. How could she even begin to understand what it was like to be hunted like an animal or be in constant fear for the life of someone you’d sworn an oath to protect. She'd no comprehension at all… never would, yet it didn’t stop her passing judgement from the comfort of her chesterfield. Her condemnation rang in his ears, “You’re just like him, a trained killer, judge, jury and executioner, can you live with that Bodie? What makes you so different?” 

She was goading him of course but he refused to take the bait which had irritated her even more. He could still picture the smugness she unwittingly revealed when she thought she had you pegged but she was wrong, he and Laaine were worlds apart; the mad bastard was a sadist with no conscience or honour. But Bodie knew he’d be off the squad in the blink of an eye if she had an insight into his murderous fantasy so he un-clenched his fists and pulled himself back, Doyle was going to pass the test or there’d be hell to pay. 

His gaze moved from Doyle to the buxom nurse in the adjoining room, shifting her attention from machine to patient and back again as she constantly adjusted the dials. A fleeting smile crossed Bodie's face and his mood lightened, perhaps he could work a bit of the _old Bodie magic_ and persuade her to tweak the results if they weren’t in Ray’s favour? The odds of convincing her were high but, in the unlikely event his charm failed, his trusty Browning pressed to her pretty head would have her ticking the right boxes in next to no time. Scoffing at his own warped sense of humour, he knew it would be a waste of time because diligent Doyle didn’t abide cheating. 

In an attempt to distract himself, Bodie read the eye chart from where he stood; anything to avoid watching Doyle’s skillful trigger finger poised over the instrument but thirty seconds later he was looking for another diversion. Restlessly he shifted his weight from leg to leg, habitually flexing his healing muscle. His thigh wound had mended nicely, quicker than a pair of eardrums it seemed and he'd been declared medically fit five days ago. The nasty bruise on his back had dissipated with the aid of blood thinners and the doc was finally satisfied his kidneys were functioning properly now he’d stopped pissing blood. So after two weeks he’d been discharged with a jar of bullet fragments for posterity, whereas Doyle on the other hand, was released after only 48 hours when the effects of his concussion had worn off, but his hearing was non-existent and there had been no guarantee it would ever return. A week after the explosion Doyle could still only lip read and it was a good few weeks before he could hold a conversation that didn’t involve flamboyant hand gestures and amusing facial expressions but there was something unnatural about a silent Doyle. The sight of him perched on the rest room sofa, seemingly oblivious, while the mongrels around him shared a joke and a laugh brought a lump to his throat; they were a heartless lot of bastards at times and like an overprotective mother, he wanted to whack them across the head for not playing nicely but he checked himself for Ray’s sake and dragged him down the local for a quiet one instead.

Movement in the examination room brought him back to the present. Doyle pushed his chair back and removed the headphones.

Thank god, he could finally stop wearing a path in the lino. His partner looked shattered and, despite Bodie’s forced enthusiasm, his thumbs up and encouraging grin were met with a shrug and no more. Not the reassurance he was hoping for. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

They met at the nurse’s desk, barely able to contain their nerves. 

“Well?” Doyle asked, running his fingers through his hair, his wide eyes fixed firmly on hers. 

“It’s up to the doctor 4.5; you’ll have to wait until he is ready to see you.”

Bodie winked seductively, “Come on sweetheart...put his mind at ease, eh?”

With a smug grin, she shook her head, “It’s not my place to interpret the results 3.7, that’s what the good doctor is paid for.”

Nurse superior sauntered along the corridor toward the doctor’s office, the graph paper held to her ample bosom as she sashayed her backside, clearly enjoying herself.

 _Bitch._ He wasn’t in the mood for games. 

They both remained standing, too restless to sit for the time it took for her to return and invite them to follow, her carefully schooled expression giving nothing away. 

_Should have gone with the Browning,_ Bodie reflected, privately disappointed his natural charm had failed. 

Doyle entered White’s office first; it was his appointment after all. Bodie suddenly hesitated, wondering if he was being presumptuous but his partner gave him a droll look and held the door open, “You need to hear this too.”

White dropped the folder he’d been perusing into his top drawer and slid it shut. That sick feeling was back. 

“Please, have a seat, gentlemen.”

Doyle shook his head, “Waited long enough already doc, just give it to me straight.” 

While his voice didn’t waver, Bodie recognised the trepidation in his taut muscles and his defensive stance, no sugar coating for Doyle and in a move of solidarity, Bodie stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with his partner, a subtle challenge, but White didn’t flinch, dealing with feisty agents was his bread and butter. 

“Right, I’d better get on with it then.” 

The doc’s neutral expression transformed into a broad smile, “I am pleased to say 4.5 that you have passed the test to my satisfaction and I’m recommending you be re-instated to full operational duties effective immediately.”

Doyle looked stunned as he lowered himself onto the chair that moments earlier he’d refused. 

“Knew it all along,” Bodie declared confidently.

“Course you did.” Doyle was suddenly flush with colour and relief.

White picked up his otoscope and crossed the room to his patient, brushing the itinerant curls out of the way as he examined each ear in turn. 

“Both membranes have healed nicely with minor scarring, shouldn’t cause you any long term problems. You’ve been damn lucky 4.5; you could have suffered permanent damage.”

“Yeah, well I’ll bear that in mind next time I’m in close proximity to an exploding device.” 

“There had better not be a next time or I’ll box your bloody ears myself,” Bodie quipped, stabbing his finger to emphasise his point.

“Pardon? What?” Doyle teased.

Bodie refused to bite but couldn’t disguise his relief, slapping his arm around his partner’s shoulder and ruffling his curls. 

“Gerrrr off you great clown,” Doyle replied, ducking out of his reach.

White interrupted their horseplay. “Now that I’m done with you, I’m under strict instructions to send you both straight to the Major’s office.”

“He wants the good news,” Doyle concluded rubbing his hands together.

White shifted uncomfortably, “I know my place in this organisation gentlemen, Major Cowley knew the results before you did.”

“Well doesn’t that just take the cake,” Bodie growled. “Always needs to be one step ahead. Is there anything that man doesn’t control?”

“Wanted to know if he was losing an agent I expect,” Doyle replied.

“You mean two,” Bodie added without humour.

******

Doyle’s news was a godsend but he couldn’t afford his best team to know how anxious he’d been, wouldn’t do his reputation any good to have them think he’d gone soft. He was grateful to have them both still on the payroll because he’d been under no illusion; if Doyle had gone, Bodie would have walked too, their loyalty to each other greater it seemed than to Her Majesty’s service. A bottle of his best single malt and three polished glasses were arranged on his desktop; he strongly suspected they would need a fortifying measure after hearing the details of their next assignment. Licking his lips, he felt like one now. This assignment would be a good opportunity to ease them back into the field, not particularly taxing but no doubt extremely gratifying.

The wait for 4.5’s results had taken its toll and a headache was brewing so he massaged his temples in the hope of avoiding a blinder. The extradition of Leonard Michael Pietersen to British shores was the culmination of weeks of confidential negotiations between the British and Kenyan Governments. The madman was a global threat and yet no other country, not even the South Africans, claimed to have sufficient evidence to prosecute so in typical fashion CI5 had taken up the mantle. 

He’d consulted Ross about his decision to send 3.7 and 4.5 and wasn’t surprised by her initial reservations; however she did acknowledge her faith in 4.5’s ability to keep his partner grounded. She didn’t anticipate a repeat of the self-destructive behaviour Bodie had revealed during the King Billy affair but, in any event, Doyle was now attuned to subtle changes and would address them immediately but, having finally gained her blessing, he wondered why, now, he felt so uneasy. Relenting, he poured himself a small measure, snapped his head back and tipped the lot down his throat it in single swallow savouring the fiery liquid as it scorched its way down. The momentary protest from his throat was quickly forgotten as he felt the warmth spread inside him. He worried too much, he decided as the scotch took the edge off his doubts, his top team were back.

******

A sharp rap on the door signalled their arrival. 

“Enter,” he said gruffly. “And get the lights.”

He didn’t miss the questioning looks they exchanged but they swiftly complied as he knew they would. The room fell dark and a patch of flickering light appeared on the wall as the projector hummed into life.

Cowley perched himself on the edge of his desk as his agents lowered themselves into the chairs arranged in front of the improvised screen, neither spoke, they knew the drill.

With a smile in his voice, Cowley began, “At the outset, let me say Doyle, I am pleased to hear you will be with us a little longer.”

“I’m rather pleased myself.” Doyle replied.

Typically Bodie couldn’t contain his enthusiasm, rubbing his hands with obvious glee. “Fit and ready for whatever you’ve got planned for us.”

“Well I expect so 3.7, it’s what you’re paid for.”

Bodie was as keen as mustard, ready to take on the world, his exuberance no doubt a direct result of Doyle’s medical clearance.

Doyle nodded at the screen. “Straight back into it, sir?”

“Nothing too taxing, you’ve both been out of circulation for a time and I’d like to ease you back in.”

Bodie’s expression soured, his voice petulant, “It’s not a babysitting job is it?”

“No Bodie, it’s the repatriation of an acquaintance of yours, one Leonard Pietersen.”

The two men shrugged at each other.

“Who…” they began in unison.

He cut them off brusquely, the interruption anticipated. “If you would both give me the courtesy of allowing me to finish...” He cleared his throat concealing his smirk, taking a perverse pleasure in keeping them on their toes.

They obliged him until Pietersen’s alias was revealed and, as expected, it aroused a colourful response from at least one member of the team.

Doyle’s chair upended as he shot to his feet, “The bastard! Where is he?”

The angry reaction not surprising considering the unholy suffering he’d caused them. 

“Sit down 4.5. I won’t abide unruly behaviour in my office, save it for the street.” 

Doyle reluctantly righted his chair and sat down again but the tension in his lean frame didn’t dissipate. Bodie, on the other hand, was outwardly calm but the twitch in his jaw and the familiar pout told a different story. 

“You’ll find him in the Garissa Police cells, cooling his heels, waiting for you to collect him.”

With a click of the handheld controller, a colourful geographic map of Africa appeared, each country a different pastel shade. Garissa was clearly identified within the border of Kenya, a short distance from the dotted line representing the Kenya-Somali border.

Bodie stiffened and inhaled sharply causing Doyle to flinch, that sixth sense of theirs was alive and well even after a two month hiatus. He was well aware of 3.7’s familiarity with central Africa and it was no surprise he was immediately wary whereas Doyle’s file confirmed he’d never stepped foot on the Dark Continent, something that would soon be addressed. 

Confident he had their undivided attention, he continued with the slide show. The next image to appear was that of a burly blonde man in a scene that could easily have come from a BBC documentary. His pose was relaxed for the camera, standing in knee high grass with a lifeless antelope draped casually over one broad shoulder and a hunting rifle over the other. Blood peppered his hands and face but he seemed unfazed, evidently at ease in that environment. The lift of his chin suggested arrogance and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Leonard Michael Pietersen, known to friends…and others as Laaine.”

He watched their reactions closely, both agents trying to restrain themselves in his presence but their body language was telling.

“Thanks to a trail of breadcrumbs left in his Scottish lair, we were able to discover Laaine's true identity and track him to his current location.”

Leaning toward the projector, he adjusted his glasses and began reading in the shadowy light, “Age, thirty four, complexion fair, 15 stone, 6’3”, dagger tattoo right upper arm and a scar on the left side of his abdomen. Well-educated. Speaks English and Afrikaans and excels in hand-to-hand combat and survival techniques compliments of the elite South African black-op corps he trained with before turning rogue three and a half years ago. Before that he earned a living as a mercenary. I’m surprised you've never crossed paths Bodie.”

Cowley put the document down, slithered from the desk and stood to face his men.

“Your task is to bring this man back, in...one...piece. We have a leak in this organisation gentlemen, that much is clear. Pietersen knew where you’d be the night he snatched you, knew your routine, knew everything about you right down to your damn boot size. I want the traitor in our midst just as much as I want Pietersen.” He’d taken the betrayal personally having signed off on every CI5 appointment. Turning back he addressed the man on the screen, his voice softer when he next spoke, “You’ve made a grave mistake targeting my boys Pietersen.”

Doyle was the first to find his voice, “How can we be sure they are the same man? Neither of us actually saw him, we need to be sure we've got the right man.”

“Aye, good question 4.5.” 

Cowley paused to stretch his leg, pacing slowly, kneading his hamstring and digging into the muscle where the pain was most keen while his agents remained seated, waiting patiently; they knew better than to show concern.

“Pietersen didn’t have time to wipe clean his lodgings before he took off giving Malone and his boys plenty to work with.”

“Nice of Malone to earn his keep,” Doyle prodded.

Ignoring the crack, Cowley pushed on, “We’ve got three positive matches to the African fingerprint database, four actually, if we you include you, 3.7, and for the record I don’t want to know why your prints were on their files.”

“Highly classified." Bodie didn't miss a beat. “Top secret.” His spontaneous grin indicated it wasn’t anything too damning.

Cowley sighed, despairing, some things were better left well alone. “Two of the prints belong to American citizens, your ‘evil twins’ I suspect, and the third to Pietersen, the only one with a South African passport, and 4.5, if you need further convincing, the Scottish Constables involved in the shootout confirmed his identity from his service photo."

Doyle dragged his hand through his hair, “Alright, alright, I’m convinced, Pietersen is Laaine. Why us?”

“It's quite simple 4.5, I don’t want any mistakes.”

The slide clicked over to a new image, “This is your contact, Jim Bancroft, Army Captain, Nairobi, retired from British service 7 years ago. He'll provide anything you need, arms, transport, communications.”

Bodie was guarded. “But can he be trusted?” 

“I can personally vouch for him, he had my back in Malta and I can assure you he is a man of integrity and considerable means.”

"That's good enough for me," Bodie replied, nodding to his partner. 

“So how quickly do we move?” Doyle asked.

“You’ll be on a commercial flight to Nairobi tomorrow morning. Bancroft will arrange your pick up from the airport and he’ll assist you with whatever you need including transport to Garissa. The diplomatic formalities have been worked though already and you’ll find the paper work is in order so there will be no need to concern yourself with red tape. Once you have him in your custody you’ll return immediately to Nairobi and be on the first commercial plane back here. It will be a quick trip gentlemen, pack for two nights.”

“Should we anticipate any resistance sir?”

He wasn’t surprised by Doyle’s wariness, after all this was unfamiliar territory for him. “None anticipated 4.5, Pietersen was on his own when he was apprehended so it seems he and his accomplices have parted ways.”

Bodie was clearly warming to the idea, grinning like an excited schoolboy. “It’ll be a walk in the park, Doyle,” he said as he lightly punched his partner’s arm. “It’s a shame we won’t be there long enough to enjoy the night life, the girls in…”

“Bodie!”

“Sorry sir.”

But Doyle wasn’t convinced, “Hang on, back up a bit.” He was studying his partner’s profile as he spoke, “Jungle Jim here might be at home in Africa…”

Bodie cut in. “Trust me…you’ll love it, I'll be your tour guide.”

“That’s what worries me, I’ll likely be arrested on sight for consorting with a felon!”

Bodie’s pout was back, “Look Ray, I want this bastard and we’ve earned the right so for once, don’t question it, eh?” 

“And more importantly gentlemen, our security leak is threatening our entire operation, I need the name of that traitor and I'm relying on you two to make sure I get it.”

Three seven’s passionate response was just as Ross had predicted while 4.5 was more wary, working his way through the potential problems, looking for trouble where there shouldn't be any. It was a good thing Bodie’s enthusiasm was tempered with a dose of Doyle’s caution and he congratulated himself yet again for his foresight in partnering these two. “I’ll expect you back here with your man by the weekend."

“Just in time for my date with the lovely Lisa,” Bodie crowed.

“Wish I had your confidence mate, I’m cancelling Carol now," Doyle groaned. "She’s already warned me, one more no show and we’re finished.” 

“Get a grip Ray, we’ll be back with time to spare, you’ll see.”

“Yeah right.”

“Gentlemen, your personal arrangements don’t concern me, just make sure you’re at Heathrow tomorrow, 0800 hours sharp.” He handed the folder to Doyle. “Betty has your airline tickets, collect them on your way out.”

“Confident then?” Bodie asked.

“Eh?”

“Confident we'll get Pietersen back here in one piece?”

“Yes 3.7, if you want to continue in my employ…he'll be in...one...piece!”

“Just as confident I was going to pass the medical?” Doyle asked suspiciously.

“I had a contingency,” he replied brusquely, defying his agent to push it further. They might be his best team but he wouldn’t stand for insolence.

He strode over to the window and opened the curtains signalling the end of the briefing.

“Time for a wee drink to celebrate your return to active duty Doyle.”

Both men visibly relaxed as the measures were distributed.

Bodie lifted his glass and held Doyle’s gaze, “So, in for a penny in for a pound?”

Doyle chinked his partner’s glass and swallowed the contents in a single mouthful, “Wouldn’t want to miss the reunion, now would I?”

******

The heat blasted them as they stepped out of the air-conditioned comfort of the baggage hall onto the bustling footpath of Jomo Kenyatta International, instantly reviving memories Bodie thought were long buried. The place hadn’t changed since he’d left with some urgency near enough to seven years ago. It still looked more like a garrison than an airport, a grim reflection of the violent nature of the place. The hall opened up onto a surprisingly busy road filled with colourfully garbed local people, most with skin as dark as night who were dodging and weaving around an eclectic mix of cars, bicycles and pack animals all jostling for position. Merging in an undefined line with the road, almost as if it had grown organically from the earth, sprawled a shanty town, contrasting considerably with the modern city skyline behind it. Haphazardly constructed with a diverse range of materials, canvas, corrugated iron, rotting boards and even tree branches, spirals of smoke issued at irregular intervals, wafting their way with the wind direction, accompanied by various odours, not all of them pleasant.

Looking up at the cloudless sky, Bodie was remembering just how vivid the colours were in this part of the world. He drew the hot dry air deep into his lungs and rubbed his hands together, “Never thought I’d say it mate, but I’ve missed the place.”

Doyle blew out his cheeks as he dragged his forearm across his damp brow.

“Toughen up Sunshine, you’ll get used to it,” Bodie sniggered.

His partner put his bag down and peeled off his jacket. “Is that before or after I turn into a grease spot on the bloody footpath?”

“I need to pee.”

“Bloody hell Bodie, why didn’t you go while we were still inside?”

He shrugged, “Didn’t need to go then did I?"

That earned him an eye roll. “Worse than a bloody child you are, just hurry up!”

He strode back into the terminal chuckling. Aggravating Doyle was one of his favourite pastimes but his amusement quickly turned to annoyance when he found the nearest toilet closed for cleaning so he walked further into the building in search of another. Some twenty minutes later, he stepped back into the sunshine, not at all surprised to see a crowd of bare footed, snotty nosed kids and their mangy dog surrounding his partner.

_Bloody pied piper._

“Bugger off” Bodie said as he waved them away. They scarpered but not before a transaction was finalised if the plaited leather band Doyle was pushing over his hand was anything to go by. He looked pleased with himself.

“Nice init?” 

“You’re a soft touch mate.”

“Looked like they hadn’t eaten for a week, all skin and bone.”

“They, Raymond, are the well-nourished ones. What did you trade for it?”

“Bits and pieces from the plane, crisps, juice, eye mask, loose change. Anyone would have thought I’d given them Aladdin’s cave the way their eyes lit up.”

“Trust me, by their standards, you did.”

A sharp whistle caught their attention and they both turned to see a white Mercedes pull up at the pavement, the driver waving enthusiastically.

“Mr Bodie, Mr Doyle?” he called out from his cabin in broken English, grinning widely and displaying a gleaming white smile beneath an ink black moustache.

A rhetorical question apparently, as he parked up and loaded their bags without further consultation. 

“Mr Bancroft send me.” 

Bodie didn't miss the pistol wedged in his belt. He exchanged a shrug with Doyle and they both climbed in.

“How’d you know it was us?” Doyle asked the driver.

Chocolate brown eyes flicked up into the mirror, “Mr Bancroft show me your picture.”

Bodie smiled as the driver pulled away from the kerb, grateful for Cowley’s meticulous planning. Amused, he watched his partner strain to see through the grimy windows at the traffic chaos unfolding in front of them, reminded that this was all new to him. The oppressive heat, the constant blaring of car horns and the mix of rural and urban set it apart from the prim and orderly streets of London. Their driver was relaxed, leaning casually against his door, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel as he comfortably negotiated the bedlam with the occasional curse and blast on his horn. 

Forty minutes later they entered what was obviously a wealthy neighbourhood, judging by the grand houses and manicured gardens, and after a few twists and turns their driver pulled up outside of a pair of ornate wrought iron gates. A toot of the horn had a young lad scrambling on the inside to open up, allowing access to the property. The driver came to a stop on the circular driveway at the front of an impressive white washed bungalow surrounded by lush tropical gardens and a sweeping expanse of neatly clipped lawn, a world away from the poverty they had just passed through.

Retired Army Captain and good friend of George Cowley, Jim Bancroft, was an imposing man, a respected leader with an unmistakable air of confidence. The ex-soldier limped down his front steps to greet them relying heavily on a silver tipped stick to negotiate the descent. The man might have been in his 60’s but he carried himself like a forty year old despite the obvious injury and his tanned skin and muscular physique indicated he spent much of his time outdoors. Immaculately turned out in a set of pressed khakis, he still dressed like a soldier, a pair of comfortable slippers his only concession to retirement.

Bancroft gripped Doyle’s hand with gusto, “You must be Raymond Doyle. I've heard wonderful things about you from the Major.” 

Doyle flushed, “Likewise sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Jim, please.”

He turned to Bodie and thrust out his hand, “Welcome Will, I understand this isn’t your first time in God's own country.” 

Bodie caught Doyle’s smirk out of the corner of his eye as they firmly clasped hands. 

“It’s just Bodie, sir, with respect no one calls me Will.”

Bancroft slapped him on the back cheerfully, “Well, Bodie it is then, as long as you promise to drop the formalities too.”

Bodie nodded expecting to have to check himself when he addressed the man, military protocol wasn't easily brushed aside. 

“How was your flight?”

“The short answer? Bloody long,” Doyle mused aloud as he picked up his holdall and followed Bancroft inside. “Eight hours pressed together like tinned sardines,” he added, twisting the kinks from his spine. “Of course the budget wouldn’t stretch to first class.” 

Bancroft chuckled, “The George Cowley I knew always kept a tight rein on the purse strings.”

“Any tighter and we’d be paying him for the pleasure!” Bodie chimed in. 

They laughed having quickly found some common ground. 

A wicked thought crossed Bodie’s mind as he contemplated the treasure trove of stories the retired soldier would have of a young George Cowley. This visit could prove fruitful in more ways than one if their host could be encouraged to divulge a story or two. 

The inside of the bungalow was a good ten degrees cooler and, although his pride wouldn’t let him admit it, he appreciated the relief from the scorching heat as much as he could tell Doyle did. The lodge was impressive, the main living area bigger than Bodie’s entire flat. The polished wooden floor beneath their feet was repeated on the ceiling and suspended fans gently circulated the air. The décor was tasteful and expensive, Bancroft had certainly done well for himself. 

A short native woman approached unobtrusively, her frizzy black hair tamed into a severe bun, her uniform, clean and starched. “Refreshments Mr Bancroft?”

“In the study please Myra and have our guest’s bags taken to their rooms. Iced tea gents or something stronger?”

‘Iced?’ Doyle mouthed out of view of their host.

Bodie snickered silently; Doyle had a bit to learn about how things were done here. 

“Iced will be fine,” he replied glancing at his watch, it was too early for anything harder and they needed to rehydrate after their flight.

The woman saw to their bags while they followed Bancroft to his study, a richly decorated room with a taxidermy antelope head, complete with enormous antlers, over the mantle. He shivered irrationally, since their dalliance with Pietersen in Scotland, he no longer saw the beauty in such trophies and he wondered idly what Ross would make of it. 

They relaxed in plush sofa chairs and discussed their travel arrangements to Garissa.

“I’ve a fully equipped Land Rover and driver at your disposal, however this morning I was offered the use of a 10 seater Beechcraft and pilot from a silent supporter of the realm.”

Bodie flicked his eyes to Doyle before settling on Bancroft, “How far is it by road?”

“The round trip will take the best part of six hours compared to thirty minutes each way by air. Not only will you cut down on your travel time but you’ll avoid the sharks too, your decision gentlemen.”

Doyle piped up, “Sharks, in a desert?”

“It’s not uncommon for vehicles travelling between here and Garissa to be ambushed, their occupants robbed, even killed. Traps are set for unsuspecting tourists, an injured child lying on the road luring them to stop, that sort of thing.”

Doyle shook his head, “It's not something they tell you about in the travel brochures. What are the authorities doing about it?”

“Authorities? They're toothless tigers I’m afraid, under resourced and politically compromised. This isn’t England Ray, it’s more like the Wild West where you’re headed. Are you familiar with the current situation in Somalia?” 

Doyle eyed Bodie suspiciously. “I’m aware there's a civil war but our briefing was confined to Kenya.”

Bodie fidgeted hoping Bancroft wasn’t about to put the wind up his partner, Doyle was already feeling like a fish out of water as it was but Bancroft didn’t heed his unspoken plea.

“It’s especially dangerous for whites at the present time and be aware the rebel forces don’t respect borders, hell they don’t respect life. Vigilance is the key, don’t let your guard down and you’ll be fine.”

Bancroft lifted his trouser leg to reveal a small pistol strapped to his ankle, “I never go anywhere without it.”

Doyle brushed his thumb back and forth across his lower lip. “What do you reckon Bodie, thirty minutes versus three hours? I don’t see there's any contest, do you?” 

“We haven’t come all this way to lose him, I say we fly."

Doyle nodded, “Agreed.”

Bancroft looked pleased. “It’s settled then. I’ll arrange to have you flown to Garissa tomorrow morning. Sam Winslade will be your pilot, champion chap, can thread a plane through the eye of a needle if you ask him to. I’ll arrange your flight for 0900, that way you can relax and enjoy a little Kenyan hospitality tonight.”

“0900 it is then,” Bodie confirmed.

“Please, join me on the veranda tonight for dinner, Kenyan style.”

“You’re on!” Bodie replied, smiling broadly at the mention of food.

“Looking forward to it,” Doyle added.

The afternoon passed quickly as they wandered the garden and relaxed by the well-appointed pool while their host took care of their travel arrangements.

Dinner was a lavish affair, a pig on a spit cooked over open coals, root vegetables and flat bread washed down with a moderate amount of lager, but try as he might, Bodie failed to coerce Bancroft into revealing the exploits a young George Cowley.

“What happens in country stays in country,” the ex-soldier repeated after persistent badgering and as disappointed as he was, Bodie respected the man’s integrity. Cowley’s secrets were safe.

They retired to their rooms around midnight.

Bodie lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head as the moon light filtered through the slatted shutters onto his bare torso yet despite the warmth of the alcohol and the gentle breeze from the mesmerising blades rotating above his bed, he couldn’t relax. This was a simple pick up so why was he uneasy? He ran through the arrangements again, unable to find any holes in their plan. If he was honest his edginess was brought on by the thought of coming face to face with the man he wanted to kill. It would surely test him but he had faith in Doyle's ability to keep him in check. 

Still…if the bastard gave them any trouble... He turned on his side and pulled the sheet up but unsurprisingly sleep eluded him.

******

Despite gusting crosswind, ex-fighter pilot, Sam Winslade, eased the ten seat duel engine aircraft to a textbook landing on the Garissa tarmac, taxied to the apron in front of the hangers and powered down the engines, advising air traffic control of his intention to remain grounded until the transfer of the prisoner had been completed. 

Surprised that he hadn’t had to fight for the co-pilot's seat, Bodie removed his headphones and climbed through to the rear of the plane where Doyle lay uncomfortably draped across the seats, his long khaki clad legs dangling into the aisle. 

Behind him Windslade was on the cockpit radio, “Kilo Sierra One to Garrisa Police.”

“Garrisa receiving.”

“We're at gate bravo six waiting for the transfer of the prisoner.”

“Escort departing now, Kilo Sierra One, be with you in twenty.”

Bodie studied his comatose partner. The heat must have kept him awake all night judging by his boneless slumber and the circles underneath his eyes. Unsympathetically he prodded him with his boot.

“Look alive Sunshine, we’re on.” 

Doyle woke suddenly, limbs spontaneously stiffening as dazed eyes flicked open. He blinked, startled for a moment before he relaxed again and slumped back. 

“Bugger off, Bodie.” His eyes slid shut again.

“Is that anyway to talk to your delightful cabin crew?”

“I said sod off.” 

“Would sir please remove his feet from the seat?”

Doyle yawned as he swung his feet to the floor, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Feels like we only just took off,” he replied eventually.

“We did.”

Doyle stretched in the confines of the cabin and cleared his throat, frowning as he flexed his shoulders and twisted from side to side. “We’ll need to be on our toes with this nutter.”

“Just wait ‘til he sees its lovable old us.”

Doyle’s brows puckered and he massaged his throat. “Just make sure you don’t disgrace the British Government, the old man will crucify us, not just you mate, _us._ ”

“Who, me? I wouldn’t dream of it,” Bodie replied innocently.

Winslade opened the hatch and lowered the stair, drawing the hot dry air into the cabin before dropping his lanky frame into an aisle seat and stretching out. Bodie settled on the top step making small talk with the man while he kept a look out for the escort detail but he was distracted by his partner sitting quietly at the back, head in hands massaging his temples.

“Okay Ray?”

“Yeah, just trying to ward off a headache, it’s the bloody heat…”

A breathless radio transmission from the cockpit cut short their conversation. 

“Garrisa to Kilo Sierra One”

Bodie was moving before the others had registered the urgency, diving back between the seats to the control panel. “Send Garissa,” he said, snatching up the microphone.

“The prisoner’s escaped, last seen east on the highway in the stolen police transport.”

The pilot’s seat recoiled violently under Bodie’s angry fist. 

“Received Kilo Sierra One?”

He slowly raised the transmitter trying to school the fury from his voice, “Roger that, message received. Anyone tailing him? Over.”

“Negative but we’ve intercepted a radio transmission from the vehicle. He's arranged his own extraction, an American is collecting him in a few hours from a rendezvous location in Somalia.”

“Extraction? Where?”

“Agabar Buulo, abandoned mercenary camp just over the border, intelligence shows he's familiar with the place, has used it for recruiting in the past.”

“I know it,” Winslade mouthed.

Bodie locked eyes with his partner, “Why would he announce that over police radio? It' code, must be." 

He raised the mic again, “It's a hoax Garissa, he's sending us on a wild goose chase."

“Unlikely Kilo Sierra One, our hands are tied once he crosses the border so he can say what he damn well likes, we won't be chasing him there.”

Winslade’s nod confirmed the radio operator’s claim. “But if he thinks he’ll be safe there he’s a mug, only a desperate man would run from the fat into the fire.”

Bodie was incensed, if anyone was going to off this nutter, it was going to be him, not some faceless Somali rebel. 

“Kilo Sierra One to Garissa.”

“Send.”

“Any chance he’ll be intercepted before he reaches the border?”

“Negative, Kilo Sierra One, too much of a head start.”

The mic swung wildly on its cord.

Doyle punched his fist into his hand and ground them together. “Christ, what a dog's breakfast! How many lives does this maniac have?” 

Bodie took a deep breath, retrieved the dangling mic and calmly returned it to its cradle, a fledgling plan was brewing.

“We’re not going back empty handed Ray.”

Doyle snarled. "Bodie, don't even think about it.” 

Failing to heed the snarky tone, Bodie persisted, “We’ll slip across the border and drag him back before anyone’s the wiser, that way Cowley can, hand on heart, deny any knowledge. All will be forgiven once the old man's got the bastard under thumb screws.”

Doyle’s temper flared. He grabbed a handful of Bodie’s shirt and hauled him close.

“Just stop for one bloody minute and use that brain of yours, you know, the thing that separates you from a Neanderthal.” 

Bodie bristled but Doyle’s grip stayed firm.

“We’re not in England now _Bodie_ and we both know Cowley wouldn’t sanction it.” 

Doyle’s glare didn’t waver but with his outburst over he released his hold on the crumpled shirt.

Bodie tugged it down, fighting the urge to punch the twit but he decided to give diplomacy one last shot.

“You’re over thinking it Ray, we’re trained for this.”

“I beg to differ _mate_ , for one, England isn’t a bloody war zone, two, the cavalry isn’t usually two days away and, three, _if you’ve forgotten_ , we’ve got no authority in this country or the next. Do you want me to go on?”

Bodie’s patience was evaporating along with his precarious restraint. “You can do what you damn well like _mate_ , but I’ll be buggered if I’m going to let the old man down.”

“He won’t thank you!” Doyle scowled, throwing his hands in the air. 

“What’s your problem? It’s not like you tow the party line, since when do you do as you’re told?”

“Stupid bastard, what about the political ramifications, eh? Just stop and think, there’s a bigger picture you know.” Doyle lashed out pushing him in the chest, driving him back to punctuate every word. “It’s…not…always…about…you.”

He wasn’t looking for a fight but by god Doyle would get one if he kept this up. “Looks like I’m on my own then." 

“Well you’re more fool than I gave you credit for.”

“Damn you Doyle, I’m doing this whether you’re with me or not! My mate Sam here will fly me across the border, won’t you old son?” He slapped his arm around the pilot’s willowy shoulder and plied him with an optimistic wink.

Winslade turned his eyes skyward before raising his hands in mock surrender. “I must be mad but, yeah, as long as it is on my terms I'm in. From what I’ve heard, this psycho needs to be stopped. ”

Bodie clapped his hand on Winslade’s back, “You’re a champion Sam, now where are the weapons are kept?”

“At the back there,” the pilot replied, angling his head at the rear bulkhead. “It’s well stocked, you’ll be best pleased.”

“Stay with the radio,” Bodie barked over his shoulder as he brusquely pushed past his partner in the confined space only to be pulled up mid stride by a bruising grip around his bicep. Incensed, he swung back like a whipcord until he was nose to nose with Doyle, a breath apart. 

“Got a death wish Doyle?”

“No, but it seems you have!” 

Bodie had no desire to go hands on with the narky sod, being so evenly matched they’d both end up battered and bruised, something he could ill afford if he was about to go toe to toe with Pietersen but Doyle was damn persistent. 

“You got cotton wool between your ears _Bodie_?”

“I said I’m doing this, with, or without you,”

“I can see that, can’t I?”

“Do us a favour eh, go home and tell Cowley I send my love.”

“Christ Bodie, what do I have to do stop this madness, lay you out cold?”

He sneered dangerously, “Think you can?” 

The challenge hung and time stretched, neither prepared to concede until Bodie sensed a subtle change in the charged atmosphere. A softening of the muscles around his partner’s eyes and a barely detectable sigh. 

A smirk played tentatively on Bodie’s lips. “You’d be no good at poker mate.” And when that didn’t end in a split lip and bloodied nose, a wide toothy grin materialised. “Knew you’d come around.”

Doyle released his bruising grip, unable to smother his own burgeoning smile. 

“Jesus, Bodie, if this turns to bollocks, you'll be doing the explaining.”

“Right you are, Sunshine.”

Winslade piped up. “You two sorted now?” 

“Yeah sorry mate,” Bodie replied having temporarily forgotten about the other man. “Slight demarcation dispute but we’re all good now aren't we Ray?”

Doyle rolled his eyes and moved along the aisle to the rear of the cabin where the weapons were stowed. “Let’s get on with it, I’ve got a hot date this the weekend….” His voice trailed off as he opened the hatch revealing the cache of weapons. “Good God, expecting World War Three?” 

Winslade shrugged. “You never know in these parts.”

Bodie peered over his partner’s shoulder and whistled. “Blimey, Baden Powell would be impressed.” 

They were back in sync and the mood in the cabin lifted.

Bodie was quick to select two AK47’s from the weapons on offer not only because they had plenty of ammo but because they had a reputation for reliability even though that came at the expense of accuracy. He loaded each rifle with a 30 round magazine, checked the sights and set them to safe. They each pocketed another three magazines giving them enough rounds to fight off an army, well just a small one he conceded. Doyle commandeered a flick knife and a compass from a box of sundry supplies he'd located at the back of the bulkhead.

“And that,” Bodie said nodding at a skein of hemp in the box, his own arms already full. “Might come in useful.”

“As long as you promise not to string Pietersen up by the neck with it.”

“Ye of little faith Doyle.”

“Little faith? Blind bloody faith if you ask me.”

“Come on Ray, be honest, you want him as much as I do. The old man will thank us, you just wait and see.”

Doyle cracked his knuckles and flexed his shoulders. “You could sell coal to Newcastle.”

“It’s my boyish charm mate, resistance is futile,” he smiled sweetly. “Cuffs?”

Doyle tapped his rear trouser pocket and held his silver neck chain aloft displaying the small key. “Check.”

After securing water canteens to their belts they re-joined Winslade in the cockpit, satisfied they were as prepared as they could be under the circumstances.

“Right boys, listen up. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t know but you’re going to hear it anyway. Dehydration will kill you just as surely as a bullet to the head so make it your priority to keep the water up and while I’m on the subject of bullets, avoid them at all costs, medical help is a long way off and not to put too fine a point on it, you won’t make it.”

Doyle grimaced. “Any more inspirational tips?”

“Yeah, just one, search and rescue parties are few and far between, you’ve got a map and compass, use ‘em.” 

Winslade smiled unexpectedly, lifting the tension, “Look, you’ll be fine, you know what you’re doing, just keep a level head.” He turned his attention to the pocket size map. “I’ll set us down on the Burr Gabbo airfield, here.” He prodded the runway with his pen. “From there you’ll have roughly four mile to hike south east to the campsite, here.” He circled both points. “Be back at the aircraft no later than 1600 hours, with or without your chap, because that’s when I’ll be leaving. I suggest we synchronise watches gentlemen.” 

The ex-fighter pilot glanced at his wrist, “I make it eleven fifteen on the knocker.”

They both made minor adjustments to their own watches. 

“How long is it from here to the Gabbo airfield?” Doyle asked.

“Forty minutes give or take depending on the wind.”

Bodie made the rough calculations in his head, “So once we land we should have close to three and a half hours to reach the camp, claim our prize and get said prize back to the plane. What do you reckon Doyle, thirty, thirty five to run four mile?”

“Even quicker if we’re being used for target practise,” Doyle replied cynically.

“Pessimist.”

“Realist.”

Winslade groaned, “Do you two ever agree?”

Bodie cuffed Doyle’s curls, “With this golly?”

Doyle flicked his head fending him off as he turned his attention back to the map, running his finger between the main Somali highway and the isolated camp along a feint line indicating a track. He lifted his eyes, “Any chance of doing a sweep along here before we touch down, he might still be enroute.”

“Sure if the air space is clear but fair warning, if there's any activity at the airstrip, I’ll be aborting and there'll be no correspondence entered into.”

Doyle raised his hands in surrender, “You’ll get no argument from me.”

“Nor me,” Bodie added. “You’re in charge of this baby, we’re in your hands.”

“And just so you know, once we are on the ground at Gabbo I’ll be briefing my boss about what we're doing otherwise we’ll be reported overdue and faster than you can say diplomatic incident, we'll be knee deep in excrement. Oh and one last thing, if I’m forced to take off before you get back, go to ground, find somewhere to sit tight and I’ll be back, I promise, but make no mistake gents, we’re on our own out here.”

His firm handshake and warm smile were genuine. Bodie knew his type, he wouldn’t let them down. 

Doyle hauled the air stair in and secured the door as Winslade lodged a flight plan he had no intention of following. Bodie returned to the co-pilot seat, strapped himself in and donned the headphones as the aircraft taxied to the end of the runway, turned on a pin and throttled forward to lift off. Once clear of Garrisa, the plane banked and headed east toward the Somali border, flying lower than was permitted to avoid detection. Less than thirty minutes later Winslade announced they were over hostile territory. 

Bodie groaned when he saw the state of the Gabbo airstrip; little more than a graded ribbon of virgin soil, bordered on one side by a huge crack in the earth. He glanced uneasily at Winslade who seemed unflustered by its condition. 

"Landed here before?” 

The man at the controls shook his head, “Not authorised,” he answered casually. “But I do enjoy a challenge, might want to strap yourselves in.” 

Bodie shouted over his shoulder, “Oi Doyle!” 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s no Heathrow, buckle up!” 

He chuckled at Doyle's dour expression as he buckled himself in before lifting the binoculars again. 

“He right in the back?” Winslade asked as he began to sweep the area between the airstrip and the main highway. 

Bodie proffered a thumbs up to the pilot up but a sudden shout had him whirling back to see what Doyle was so excited about. 

“Bingo! Starboard side, the insignia on the door.” Doyle’s boyish grin was infectious. “It’s got to be him.” 

It didn’t take Bodie long to identify what Doyle was on about and even without the binoculars he was able to recognise the police insignia. The vehicle looked to be tilted at an odd angle though and was apparently abandoned. 

Winslade banked the plane sharply. “Hang on, we’ll go around for another look." 

Bodie borrowed the binoculars and zoomed in on the vehicle, the reason for the tilt coming strongly into focus, jarring slightly with the motion of the aircraft. A broken axle. “Can’t see anyone down there.” 

“We’re not far from the camp, any closer and you’ll lose the element of surprise so this is as close as we'll go,” Winslade announced. 

Bodie’s heart raced as he adjusted the lens to take in a wider field of view. A few mile from the abandoned van, he saw a dozen huts, surrounding a small oasis. Even with the binoculars he had trouble focusing and as much as he wanted a better look, he agreed with Winslade's decision. 

“You’re right, don’t want to give him any cause to be nervous.” 

Winslade checked his instruments. “Provided he’s there of course.” 

“He’s bloody well down there,” Bodie declared full of confidence. “I can feel it.” 

Doyle leaned forward, “Turning psychic on us eh?” 

“It's a no brainer Ray, he's got no transport until the American's turn up but we’re here first, he’s down there alright, I’d put money on it.” 

“Let’s hope you’re right, Sherlock.” 

The landing, as expected, was rough, not his worst by a long shot but judging by Doyle’s drawn features, it might have been his, still, the four mile jog would remedy his queasiness, all he needed was fresh air and solid ground beneath his feet. 

They set off from the airstrip at a fast jog, pacing themselves to avoid arriving so exhausted they couldn’t handle themselves when it mattered. Bodie had known from experience it’d be nothing like jogging around a frosty Richmond Park first thing in the morning but Doyle took it all in his sure-footed stride, moving freely despite the sweat leaching out of him. Fine dust that hadn’t been disturbed for eons coated their boots and sweat patches appeared at their armpits and between their shoulders blades but they ran in sync, matching each other for speed and stride despite the oppressive heat, picking their paths carefully through the arid grasses and loose rocks because a twisted ankle now would mean the end of their mission. Fifteen minutes into their run they paused at Bodie’s signal so he could check their bearings and once satisfied, they pushed off again, maintaining a steady pace until the camp materialised through the heat haze in the distance. A few hundred yards out they slowed to a walk to quieten their approach, removing their rifles from their shoulders in readiness. 

Bodie checked his watch as they took refuge behind a charred lorry at the camp’s outer fence noting they'd covered the distance in a respectable twenty eight minutes. His niggling worry about Doyle’s fitness had been dispelled, the canny sod had maintained a steady pace the entire way and hadn’t once looked like flagging. 

They hung back using the lorry for cover, sipping water and slowing their heart rate while they waited for signs of human activity. A small number of goats milled around a central water trough while the rest of the herd gathered under the shade of nearby trees. A hawk circled the helpless animals, rising and falling on the air currents, a stark reminder of how fickle life in Africa was. Bodie turned his focus to the camp perimeter, eyeing the mortar craters and flattened chain link fence, it didn’t take a genius to work out why the camp had been vacated although the presence of the animals suggested at least one intrepid soul was still living there.

They didn’t have to wait long before the light breeze carried muffled voices across the compound confirming the presence of more than one man. He'd known the bastard was here and the sound of a white South African voice confirmed it. He communicated with Doyle in code, trading glances and hand signals as they pinpointed the target hut, their strategy confirmed with a curt nod. They crept closer, their teamwork as smooth as silk.

Bodie stilled as the conversation inside the hut dropped off, the silence unnerving. He pressed lightly against his partner’s back, and, in the rising heat, they moved forward as one. He smelt Doyle’s sweat and shared his fear, revelling in their keen awareness, together, a million miles from the familiarity of London. His anticipation grew. “Steady, Ray,” he murmured, “easy,” as they approached the entrance with weapons primed.

A blanket strung across the opening made certain they would enter blind but there’d been three distinct voices before the pause in conversation. He placed his hand lightly on Doyle’s shoulder, restraining him as he placed his mouth to his ear, his voice barely a whisper, “I’ll take our friend.”

Doyle nodded.

“On five,” Bodie mouthed. 

Their adrenaline peaking.

Softly, “one…two...,” 

His partner raised his hand sharply, causing him to freeze. Head tilted, Doyle concentrated, closing his eyes, trying to identify the sound he’d heard. He dropped his hand and shrugged. 

“three…four…”

Bodie didn’t remember five, as he morphed into a ruthless soldier and rolled fearlessly under the cloth into the hostile interior, coming up on bended knee, weapon aimed menacingly at the three surprised men sitting crossed legged on the floor. Doyle mirrored his move with the grace of a gymnast, rising swiftly on the opposite side of the doorway, rifle pointed. Between them they had the small space covered before its occupants had a chance to react. 

Bodie focussed immediately on the blonde shock of hair, implicitly trusting Doyle to have the other two covered. There was no mistaking their pale target between the two gun toting natives. They’d hit the jackpot but there’d be no champagne corks popping until they’d made their delivery to Cowley. 

Doyle barked instructions in the Queen’s English, demanding the native men abandon the rifles that lay across their laps. 

Pietersen recovered his poise quickly, schooling his features after a spark of recognition threatened his composure. 

“They don’t understand you Mr Doyle, they don’t speak English.” 

“Well tell them…” 

“Drop jou wapens,” Bodie barked, over the top of Doyle while still maintaining his aim. 

Doyle snorted, apparently amused to hear him fluent in the lingo but it had the desired effect and Pietersen grudgingly nodded to his companions, prompting them to toss their weapons. The man’s lips curled in an icy smile, “I’m impressed Mr Bodie.” 

“Just Bodie will do.” 

“Well _just Bodie_ , I should congratulate you on signing your own death warrant…and his,” he added, tipping his head at Doyle. “You might be in control now but I promise before long the buzzards will be picking the sweet white flesh from your bones.” 

Bodie felt his hackles rising. He inched closer. “Shut it unless you want me to shut it for you.” 

“Don’t!” Doyle growled. 

Bodie paused as his partner’s tone penetrated. 

Pietersen nodded, “Very perceptive Mr Doyle.” 

“Don’t push your luck Pietersen, he's got a bad habit of disobeying orders.” 

Even though he knew he was being goaded, Bodie wavered, itching to wipe the arrogant look from Pietersen’s face, permanently, but Cowley’s warning lingered … _in...one...piece Bodie._

“You’re not here to kill me otherwise I’d be dead already,” the Pietersen observed. 

Bodie pressed the rifle firmly to his cheek and took careful aim, his nostrils flaring, lips thinning with hate, actions totally unnecessary in such close quarters where he couldn’t possibly miss but he wanted the bastard to feel the fear before his head was removed from his shoulders. 

“Don’t,” Doyle snarled in the charged atmosphere. “He’s not worth it.” 

_Damn you Doyle._

His trigger finger wavered, distracted by his partner’s plea. He mulled it over, realising he could do without the grief he’d get from the old man and besides, Pietersen, didn’t deserve a quick death. 

“Wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction,” he announced smugly as though he never had any intention of spraying the walls with South African blood. 

Apparently satisfied, Doyle slung his rifle over his shoulder, untied a cord from around his waist and sliced it in two, raising his eyes brows signalling his needed for an interpreter again. 

“Staan hande agter,” Bodie shouted. His Afrikaans was rusty but he knew his instruction had been understood when the closest man climbed to his feet and turned, pressing his wrists together in the small of his back. 

Doyle approached with customary caution, patting him down to ensure he had nothing concealed. The man's hands were tied firmly before he was forced to the ground where his feet were anchored with the loose end of the rope, effectively hog tying him. The man grunted and glared as he tested the strength of his restraints but the ties held firm as Bodie knew they would. Doyle moved to the other Somalian and completed the same task quickly and efficiently before turning his attention to their antiquated rifles, removing their bolts and pocketing them. 

“Up!” Doyle motioned to the blonde man. “Hands on your head.” 

As Pietersen complied, it became obvious how much taller and heavier he was than both of them, forcing Doyle to reached up to snap a handcuff onto one of his wrists. Then, none too gently, he swung the arm down in an arc and up into the middle of his back, pushing against him to keep him off balance. 

“Other one,” he instructed, retaining control over the cuffed hand, using the bracelet as leverage. Pietersen complied, bringing his free hand down behind his back to meet the other. Doyle worked the ratchet until the big man winced. 

“How’s that, buddy boy," Doyle snarled. 

A momentary flinch was the only evidence of discomfort on Pietersen’s poker face. A lighter and a few crushed cigarettes were all Doyle found when he patted him down. 

“Take th…” 

Doyle's voice choked off as Pietersen threw his head back; smashing it into his unprotected face. Bodie heard the sickening blow and Doyle cry out as his hands instinctively flew to his face but before Pietersen had an opportunity to capitalise, Bodie was there, weapon held high, and without hesitating he smashed the butt down catching the South African across the temple. The man dropped like a lead balloon. 

“Oh great, just great.” Doyle said tipping his head back to stop the blood flow, blinking his watery eyes “Dow what do we do?” 

“He was asking for it.” 

“Damn it Bodie, you played right into his hands, it's not like we can carry ‘im is it?” 

“How’s the nose?” 

“I’ll live,” was the terse reply. 

Bodie slung his weapon over his shoulder and squatted, poking Pietersen firmly in the ribs to gauge his level of awareness. The big man groaned and his eye lids fluttered. 

“Come on wakey, wakey,” he said slapping him sharply across the face. “Time to go.” But before he could revive him, Doyle upended a gourd of water over them both. 

“Oi, watch it." 

“Cool it Bodie, forget the vendetta, this is work, remember work?” 

Pietersen stirred, coughing and spluttering as he groggily returned to consciousness. He'd had no regrets about knocking the South African into la la land and if there were any more funny business, he’d get a hell of a lot worse. They took an arm each and mercilessly wrenched his elbows up, dragging him to his feet. Bodie lent in, ghosting his breath across Pietersen’s cheek as he pressed his finger firmly into the flesh between the man’s eyes. “Do as you’re told or you'll get a bullet right here.” 

“He’s crazy you know,” Doyle said straight-faced. 

Leaning back out of Pietersen’s line of sight, Bodie crossed his eyes like a loon. Doyle grinned, checked his weapon and cautiously exited the hut. 

Bodie jabbed the bigger man in the back. “Move it,” he snarled, pushing him out into the light leaving the two angry Somali’s bound and trussed like Christmas turkeys. 

Doyle consulted the compass before leading off at a brisk pace across the dusty plain in the direction from where they'd come while Bodie pushed and cajoled their prisoner to move faster but Pietersen was testing him, dragging his feet and deliberately slowing them down despite constant threats and thirty minutes on they were still only half way to the airstrip. 

Exposed as they were, Bodie was only too aware of the unseen enemy and it made him nervous. Tufts of grass and the odd wind sculpted tree weren’t going to provide ballistic protection and Pietersen’s repeated glances over his shoulder only heightened his apprehension. 

“Pick up the pace Ray.” 

Doyle broke into a comfortable jog and Bodie pressed their reluctant prisoner to do likewise. Running four mile was easy, something they did regularly but this wasn’t London, this was a war zone and they had a millstone around their necks. 

Ten minutes further on and Bodie decided drastic action was needed.

“Eh, Doyle, hold up.” 

His partner, flushed and breathing hard, came to a halt and walked back to where he’d stopped, taking a swig from his canteen as he monitored the horizon though 360 degrees. 

“What’s up?” he asked, maintaining his vigil. 

“Some encouragement is in order,” Bodie announced as he quickly set to work, tying a slipknot in a length of rope, placing it over Pietersen’s head, settling the knot snugly across his windpipe. He wrapped the loose end of the line firmly around his hand and tugged it, immediately tipping the South African off balance. He was pleased with his handiwork. “Keep up or choke.” 

“Bodie…” Doyle's tone was urgent. 

He looked up, following Doyle’s gaze to a trail of dust in the distance and saw a fast moving convoy approaching from the north, headed their way. His blood ran cold. 

“F’ Christ sakes, run!” he shouted, shoving Pietersen forward and setting off at a sprint, adrenaline propelling them faster than he would have thought possible. 

Doyle led the charge, his rifle, like Bodie's own, was slung over his shoulder, the need for speed suddenly outweighing the need for arms and judging by the effort Pietersen was making to keep up, he had no idea if the approaching mob were friend or foe. 

_Better the devil you know, eh?_

In spite of the cauldron-like heat Bodie quickly found his rhythm, regulating his breathing and lengthening his stride to keep pace with his greyhound partner, but they still had a way to go and adrenaline would only take them so far. His arm ached from the constant pull on the rope around Pietersen’s neck but he’d be damned if he was going to let him go after all the trouble they'd gone to. It was lucky the bastard was as fit as they were. 

It wasn't long before two overloaded open top jeeps materialised through the dust haze, their engine’s revving hard as they raced toward the airstrip. Winslade was preparing for an emergency departure judging by the noise and dust the aircraft was generating and to have any chance of survival they had to be on-board when it lifted off, so he dropped his eyes back to Doyle’s heels and concentrated on keeping up with those rhythmic feet. 

As they drew close to the edge of the strip his hopes lifted, they could do this. The vehicles were still a good half mile away and Winslade had the propellers at full throttle so all they needed now was for the hatch to open, the air stair to drop and they’d be as good as out of this nightmare but his expectation turned to disbelief when the aircraft began rolling forward. Slowly at first and then accelerating, gathering momentum and staying just out of reach despite their shouting and cursing. All too late he realised they were in Winslade’s blind spot and had no hope of attracting his attention over the noise and the movement of the aircraft. 

A few yards closer to the aircraft than he was, Doyle propped, changing direction away from the taxiing plane, and with all the trust in the world, Bodie sharply altered his course to follow, dragging Pietersen with him. Doyle suddenly dropped from sight on the far edge of the runway and Bodie had to wonder if he were hallucinating, but then he found himself tumbling into the same dry water course, dragging Pietersen down with him. 

Breathing heavily, Doyle immediately positioned himself against the inside slope with his rifle just short of the surface while Bodie struggled to subdue their captive in the deepest part of the ditch. The bigger man resisted until Bodie got the purchase he needed to work the noose tight and render him unconscious. 

“You haven’t…killed him?” Doyle rasped out between breaths, still focussed on the skyline above. 

“Not likely…the old man would…crucify me,” he replied equally breathless. “He’s just having 40…winks…all that effort...” Bodie dropped his head onto his forearm, too out of breath to continue. 

Slamming doors and shouting voices announced the arrival of their pursuers. They sounded close. 

“Think…they saw us?” 

Bodie shrugged. “Know...soon enough.” 

Unsure what their fate held, Bodie inched his way over to Doyle’s side, squeezing his shoulder in a familiar gesture. He felt the tension in his partner's wiry frame as he turned, reassuring him with a chipped tooth smile. It was surprising how, when things were desperate, a simple touch conveyed much more than words. Remarkably calm, Bodie returned the smile; whatever their future, they’d face it together. 

One native voice rose above the others. “Celi diyaarad, celi diyaarad, diis." 

“What’s he saying?” 

“Stop the plane.” 

“How?” 

Doyle's question was followed by the sound of weapons being cocked and magazines sliding home. 

"That's how."

A surge in engine noise coincided with an aggressive volley of gunfire drowning out the rebel's voices until the onslaught died down and their shouts could be heard again. 

“Kanbal caddaan, kanbal wacal.” 

“Kill the whites,” Bodie translated as he studied his partner’s stoic profile, not sure what he’d done to deserve the scruffy bugger’s loyalty but knew he was damn lucky to have it 

Doyle faced him, his eyes wide open. "Winslade’s taking off.” 

“He’ll be back.” 

“Yeah, but where does that leave us?” 

“Enjoying all that Somalia has to offer,” Bodie quipped. 

The skewed shadow passed over their ditch confirming the aircraft was airborne. 

“They think we’re on board,” he added. 

“I wish we bloody were,” Doyle replied. 

A sudden change in the pitch of the Beechcraft's engines had them whipping their eyes heavenward to a trail of putrid black smoke. 

An icy chill settled in the pit of Bodie’s stomach and Doyle groaned, wrapping his arms over his bowed head, as they listened helplessly. 

Triumphant shrieks from ground level coincided with the fireball which rose high enough to be visible from the bottom of the riverbed. 

“Cawo, kanbal caddaan, kanbal caddaan.” 

“Death in the sky, good fortune or some bullshit,” Bodie translated. “Poor bastard, this wasn’t his battle.” 

Doyle straightened, eyes bright with emotion. “He wasn’t stupid, he knew the risks, probably better than we did.” 

The cheers eventually died down, although the vehicles didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Bodie peeked carefully over the ditch. Several men squatted in the shade of their vehicles, smoking, their gazes in the direction of the plume of smoke. Flies buzzed, the heat haze shimmered and Ray Doyle’s face was for once, quite unreadable. Bodie leaned back, prepared to wait them out. Finally, the engines started, tyres spinning for purchase in the powdery dirt and the vehicles departed, turning in an arc towards the distant remains of the aircraft. Silence descended though the stench of burning aviation fuel lingered. 

“The brave soul didn’t deserve that,” Bodie reflected, turning his anger on Pietersen who by now was alert and listening. “It’s this bastard’s fault.” 

Pietersen spat, catching Bodie on the chin and and for his trouble he received a lightning fast backhander. It had to have smarted but the bastard didn’t flinch. 

Doyle bolted upright to join in the fray. 

“Forget it!” Bodie growled as he calmly wiped the spit away. Foolishly he’d relaxed after the withdrawal of the gunmen but of course the danger was still here with them, Pietersen was no novice and he needed to lift his game. “Ready for a bit of cross country Ray?” 

“Yeah, swap for a bit, I’ll take him,” Doyle said tipping his head at Pietersen. “You can navigate, I’ve no clue where to from ‘ere.” 

****** 

Cowley pressed the intercom, “Put him through.” 

He smiled as he lifted the mouthpiece, “Jim, I hope my boys aren’t giving you too much trouble?” 

The silence was ominous and Cowley felt the blood drain from his face. 

“Damn it George, there’s no easy…” A pause and a heavy intake of breath. “…they’re dead George, plane crash over Somalia. I’m sorry to break the news over the phone but I wanted to be the one to tell you, not some bloody Whitehall Minister.” 

And as easily as that, he’d lost his best team. Numb with disbelief, his world narrowed to the voice in his ear. 

“George, are you there?” 

He cleared his throat, “What the devil were they doing in Somalia?” 

“I'll tell you what I do know but its probably not the whole story. An expatriate offered your boys the use of his company aircraft and naturally they accepted; ordinarily it’s far safer than travelling the highway but when they landed in Garissa they were met with the news Pietersen had escaped and was heading into Somalia for a rendezvous with associates. Your boys, George, they were single-minded about recapturing him and it seems they persuaded the pilot to go along with their crazy scheme.” 

Cowley closed his eyes, struggling for coherent thought but he had a job to do and mercifully the rational part of his brain kicked in. 

“Would you like me to call back…once you have had time to digest this?” 

“No," he rallied. "Please go on, the Prime Minister will need to be briefed and I’ll have to act fast to avert an international incident.” 

“I understand a radio transmission was intercepted from the escapee specifying a rendezvous point and your boys convinced the pilot to take a detour. Once they were on the ground in Somalia the pilot radioed his employer to appraise him of the situation. Neither he nor I would have agreed to it, George.” 

“I appreciate that Jim, neither would I for what it’s worth, please continue.” 

“About 70 minutes later a brief mayday call was received from the pilot and then nothing." 

“So there’s no confirmation the plane actually went down?” he asked, embarrassed at his desperation. 

“I’m sorry, George, but the crash has been confirmed, I pulled a few strings and had a Kenyan Air Force recognisance flight divert to the border, quite unofficially you understand, and they identified the wreckage. I am reliably informed that no one could have survived. The fuselage was totally destroyed on impact and engulfed by fire and there’s no chance of body recovery either, we can’t risk any more lives. I’m sorry for your loss George, I know you were proud of those boys. I am sure they will be keenly missed.” 

A spark of anger crept in and his voice took on a hard edge, “Don’t be sorry. They didn’t have the good sense to back off when they should have, it was bloody reckless and now we’ve got a dead pilot and no doubt a substantial compensation claim on its way. I am the one who should be apologising not you.” 

But it wasn’t his agents he was angry with, he’d known how they felt about the man and he should have anticipated trouble, should have sent someone who didn’t have a personal agenda. In the cold light of day the buck stopped with him but self-incrimination would have to wait, his old army mate was still on the line. 

“…gung ho, but a good pilot.” 

“But damn it Jim, they weren’t authorised…” His words caught in his throat, it was pointless condemning their actions now. 

“I’ll have their effects shipped back to you.” 

“Aye, thank you Jim. Let me know if you hear anything else.” 

“Of course George, talk soon.” 

Cowley returned the receiver to the cradle with exaggerated care and calmly lifted the fine crystal tumbler from his blotting pad, holding it to the light with his fingertips, appreciating its fine cuts before swallowing its meagre contents and hurling the empty glass against his office door, smashing it beyond recognition. 

There was a gentle knock on the door from Betty's adjoining office, “Sir?” 

“Not now,” he replied a little more harshly than he had intended. Removing his glasses, he dropped his head into his hands, a terrible hollow feeling had settled inside of him. 

****** 

_Christ it was hot._

They’d been on the trot for over an hour when Bodie was lured to stop at a grove of trees at the base of a rocky incline, the first vantage point they’d come across since they'd been on the run. Doyle arrived nearly a minute later with Pietersen in tow, slowing to a walk as he neared, bent at the waist, hands on hips, sucking in oxygen. Pietersen dropped heavily to his knees, the noose hanging slackly around his throat. 

“Back soon,” Bodie announced as he scrambled to the top of the slope to get a better view leaving Doyle guarding Pietersen under the shade of a scrubby acacia. He shielded his eyes from the glare and heat inducted haze that blurred the horizon as he cast his gaze through 360 degrees seeing nothing more than sun baked earth in every direction. His relief that they weren't being followed was tempered with the knowledge that his own people weren’t coming either because, by now it was likely word of their fiery deaths would have reached Cowley and God knows, dead men don’t need rescuing. What a bloody fiasco.

Calculating their current location with the map and compass he was relieved to find they were moving in the right direction, toward a track that led to the road that would take them to the border crossing which could go one of two ways. Either a warm welcome or a bullet in the head depending on which side had the upper hand on the day. Might be wise to avoid the road altogether, anyway, it was something to run by Doyle once they were closer. 

Pulling the canteen from his belt, he took a swig, just enough to moisten his throat. He shifted his gaze to the two men below as he dragged his forearm across the stubble on his chin, wiping the itinerant drips away. He only cared about saving one, the other could go to hell as far as he was concerned although he knew the old man would have something to say about that. 

Pietersen was sitting cross-legged in the dirt, leaning forward to ease the pressure on his shoulders. _Serves him right having arms like a gorilla._ Bodie knew the pain of solid biceps ripped back into an unnatural position for hours on end but he had no sympathy and turned his attention back to Doyle whose weapon hung loosely at his back while he held his canteen to Pietersen's mouth. It brought a smile to Bodie's lips, Mother Teresa would be proud.

As he contemplated their future his thoughts drifted to home and a particular Scottish burr. He could almost hear it, _of all the stupid hair brain schemes Bodie…_ but his smile faded when his thoughts turned morbid, their funerals, probably already scheduled knowing the old man’s ruthless efficiency, would be a private low-key affair, the sort of ceremony you had when there were no remains to inter. The squad would be stoic at the service of course but messy afterwards once the alcohol had freed their inhibitions and loosened their tongues, _sorry lads._ He tried to lighten his mood, focusing on the lavish attention he get from the girls in the typing-pool when they learned he'd been resurrected but a solemn Cowley quoting scripture from the pulpit crushed that silver lining too. _Bloody Cowley._ He wouldn’t put it past the tight-fisted Scot to have a joint service either, a shared memorial in the interest of financial expediency. _‘Here lies the Bisto Kids, never far apart‘_ , or some such cliche inscription but the joke pulled him up sharply and he considered the idea, perhaps it wasn’t so cliche after all, better than spending an eternity alone. 

Bloody hell, this was bad medicine. 

Tucking the map and compass away, he scuttled back down the slope, tonight they’d be sleeping under an African sky with one eye open, just like the old days. 

“I’ll stay in the lead for a while unless you have any objections,” Bodie said as he approached but Doyle didn't react. 

“Ray!” 

Doyle spun like a startled deer, muscles engaged as he brought the rifle up in a well-practised move but it was quickly lowered with a scowl, “Alright, keep your shirt on, bloody stupid sneaking up on me like that." 

“Who was sneaking?” 

He watched as Doyle adjusted the webbed strap on his weapon and re-seated it on his shoulder. He looked peaked, not his usual energetic self, the heat must really be getting to him. 

“I’ll stay up front, just whistle when you want to swap,” Bodie said. 

Doyle forced a smile. “I’ve got it,” he snapped but something wasn’t right, his body language didn’t match his tone. 

Pietersen straightened, taking notice. 

Bodie pulled Doyle to one side. “You okay?” he asked, searching his partner's face for reassurance. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Doyle replied, squinting up at the sky. “What is it they say about mad dogs and Englishmen?” He closed his eyes, drew in a long deep breath and visibly relaxed before opening them again. “Could murder a cold one." 

“This time tomorrow…” 

“Bullshit Bodie, we are not out of this by a long shot.” 

Doyle, could always be relied on for a shot of pessimism just when the opposite was needed. Predictably it brought his own suppressed frustration to the surface and he unleashed on the only person he could. 

“What do you reckon Doyle, kneecap him and walk away, leave him for the buzzards?” 

Bodie circled their prisoner like a panther sizing up his next meal, cuffing him over the back of the head as he prowled pushing for a reaction but not getting one so he pushed harder. 

“We’d move faster without him Doyle, home for tea I reckon. Cowley would forgive us…eventually.” 

“Bodie,” Doyle growled. 

Ignoring the menacing tone, he continued to needle. “Don’t see anyone coming to your rescue _buddy_ but then they wouldn’t would they? Not unless they were being paid a pretty penny. Face it, no one gives a toss what happens to you.” 

“You’ll keep,” the bigger man snarled. 

Satisfied he’d hit a nerve, Bodie slung his rifle over his shoulder and hoisted the man to his feet, eliciting a satisfying yell as the man’s trapped arms overextended. 

Pietersen glared daggers, “Two faced bastard, pretty quick to brush off your own dark past aren’t you?” 

“Shut it,” Bodie shouted, itching to knock his head from his body. 

Doyle levelled his gaze at Pietersen, “Hey Einstein, you got a death wish?” 

The bigger man cricked his neck from side to side. “He doesn’t scare me.” 

Bodie felt the weight of his partner’s hand on his shoulder. 

“I’d get moving if I were you,” Doyle snarled at their prisoner. “While you still can.” 

Pietersen’s eyes flicked between the two of them and settled on Doyle. 

“Take off the cuffs and I’ll go faster, you have my word…” 

Bodie cut him off raising his rifle as high as the South African’s stomach. He chuckled humourlessly, “Your word? Your word means nothing…less than nothing!” 

Doyle pushed the rifle barrel down with his palm. “Pack it in Bodie, we don’t have time for this.” 

Pietersen looked to Doyle but found no salvation there. “And don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m your mate; my memory’s not that short.” 

Doyle motioned Bodie away from their prisoner’s hearing, “Look, I’m not proposing we let him lose, but if we move the cuffs to the front he’ll be able to move faster. What do you say?” 

“I think you’re going soft in the head mate.” 

“Not with this bastard I’m not, but he’s slowing us down.” 

“You’re a one man Geneva bloody Convention Doyle but you’ll be the one watching him so suit yourself.” 

“Sod it. Anything that gets us out of this place quicker is worth it.” 

Doyle keyed the bracelets open and re secured Pietersen’s wrists to the front while Bodie kept a vigilant watch, disappointed when he didn’t try anything. 

“Now let’s see how fast the pansy can go,” Bodie said with a firm shove in the back. 

Pietersen’s eyes narrowed. “Go to hell.” 

“You first,” he replied sweetly. 

They fell back into line with Doyle at the rear and their prisoner between them.

Their idle chatter gradually subsided as they progressively stretched out over a few hundred yards making casual conversation impossible and with little else to occupy his mind Bodie began contemplating their future. If they were conservative with their water they would have enough to see them through to the border, fitness wasn’t an issue and food wouldn’t be a problem for at least twenty four hours so all things being equal they should make it to Kenya on the supplies they had but this was dangerous, unpredictable territory and there were no guarantees of a smooth passage. Repressed memories from long ago, images he’d hoped would stay buried forever, worked their way to the surface, memories of tough men chewed up and spat out without so much as a ripple in the status-quo of this place. Conflict in Africa was the worst he’d seen anywhere, devoid of humanity and compassion and anything remotely associated with the usual convention Geneva had set down. Life here was cheap. 

Pressing on, he harnessed his inner strength as more than one wise old man had taught him to do, one dusty boot in front of the other, legs operating independently to the rest of his weary body. He glanced back over his shoulder, Pietersen was well accustomed to this environment and Doyle was as tough as nails so as long as they didn’t run into any hostiles they had a fighting chance. 

Inevitably his thoughts drifted to Scotland and what the bastard had put them through. It hadn’t been the thought of dying that had disturbed him so much, he’d harnessed that fear long ago, it was the fear of failing the person he cared most about that caused him the most anguish. 

He rolled his sleeves down and turned his collar up against the scorching sun but the damage had already been done judging by his skin’s itchy tightness. Experience told him he’d peel in a few days exposing new skin which would be even more susceptible to the sun, but he hoped by then they’d be well out of this nightmare so without breaking stride he took a swig from his canteen and rechecked the compass. Doyle would most likely be sick of babysitting by now so he’d offer to swap at the next shady spot they came across. 

The monotony had his mind wandering further afield to his current bird, the date he was going to miss, the argument that would follow and the inevitable break-up but his speculation was interrupted by an unnerving sensation ghosting down the length of his spine causing the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It took a moment to process but once he had he didn’t hesitate, his weapon instinctively finding its way into his hands as he pivoted. It took less than a heartbeat to read the situation. Doyle was down, not moving and Pietersen was sprinting toward him. His mind made the connection almost before he saw it, the distance, how far Doyle had fallen behind and Pietersen was nearly upon on him. 

It wasn't Ray he was after, it was his weapon. 

“Hold it!” Bodie bellowed as he pressed the rifle to his shoulder but the man didn’t falter. 

_Stop you bastard._

He took aim at Pietersen’s broad back but gut instinct forced him to adjust his sight picture bringing Doyle sharply into focus directly behind his moving target. 

__Jesus Christ!_ _

He couldn’t risk it, not with an untested weapon notorious for its inaccuracy. 

He aimed well wide, firing two shots in quick succession before Pietersen skidded to a stop just spitting distance from Doyle. 

Bodie quickly closed the gap, storming in-between his prisoner and his crumpled partner. 

“Back off Pietersen, move it!” 

The big man backed slowly away, breathing hard from his dash, his cuffed hands raised in defence. 

“Can’t… blame…me…’f…tryin’.” 

Bodie kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner as he dragged the rifle out from under Doyle’s unresisting body, slinging the weapon over his shoulder for safekeeping. 

“Doyle…Ray?” 

The silence was unnerving but his priority was to get Pietersen as far away as possible. 

"Thirty paces that way,” Bodie barked, tilting his head in the direction he wanted the man to go but the bastard held his ground, apparently weighing up his chances until eventually he conceded, counting the paces aloud as he stepped them out before pivoting back to face him. If looks could kill... 

“Down on the ground.” 

Pietersen reluctantly complied. 

“Don’t push your luck,” Bodie warned as he dropped to one knee keeping the bigger man in his peripheral vision but the sight of his downed partner drenched in sweat and drawn in on himself shocked him, setting his stomach fluttering. He glanced up at Pietersen who seemed preoccupied with the horizon before returning his attention to Doyle. 

“Ray? You with me?” 

A groan was his only response. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Bodie pushed two fingers firmly into the pulse point under his jaw, monitoring his racing heart before sliding his hand up to his clammy forehead. 

“You’re burning up.” 

“Feel…lousy,” Doyle pressed out between laboured breaths, his eyes half-mast. 

“Can you sit up?” 

“Give…’s…a hand.” 

Bodie sent a threatening glance in Pietersen’s direction before laying his weapon down within reach and manhandling Doyle into a sitting position, leaning the trembling body against his own, wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulder to stop him listing. 

“I’ve got you,” he said raising the canteen to Doyle’s mouth, aware of the big man’s scrutiny. 

“Waste of water,” Pietersen announced from his position of exile. 

“Shut it!” 

“Suit yourself, but he’ll just bring it straight back up.” 

Ignoring the unsolicited advice, Bodie tilted Doyle’s head back, taking his weight as he trickled water through parted lips but the contrary sod seemed unwilling to swallow and more of the precious liquid flowed down his chin than his throat. 

“Damn it Ray, drink." 

Doyle swallowed a few mouthfuls at his urging before he eased him back down. 

“It’s wasted on ‘im…I told you,” Pietersen said with exaggerated patience. 

“And I said…shut it before I shut it for you.” 

Bodie’s attention snapped back to his partner at the first convulsion and he watched helplessly as the spasms escalated until the retching became unbearable and rose tinted fluid spewed out. Doyle dragged his sleeve shakily across his mouth as tremors wracked his body. 

“Much blood?” Pietersen said indifferently, and Bodie wondered how the man could possibly know when he was so far away. He stared at his partner, so obviously ill. Really ill, so suddenly. 

How the hell did this happen? 

“Can you walk?” 

“Help me…up,” he replied breathlessly. 

Bodie eased his arms under Doyle’s arm pits and hoisted him from behind but his partner's rubbery legs folded and he quickly became a dead weight. 

_Come on Ray; don’t do this to me, not here for god’s sake._

He carefully lowered the limp body, protecting his curly head all the way to the ground. 

Pietersen was searching the horizon again, “We can’t stay here, it’s too dangerous, we’re exposed. Leave him. 

If anything might have tempted Bodie to shoot the bastard on the spot it was that but with Cowley’s threat ringing in his ears he resisted. 

“Bugger off, its heat stroke, we’ll rest for a bit until he comes good.” 

Pietersen sighed, shaking his head, still casting an eye into the distance. “Suit yourself but you’ll have to leave him eventually." 

Bodie didn’t like what he was inferring and a sinking feeling settled in his stomach. 

_Why was the bastard so bloody confident?_

“What are you on about?” 

“He’ll be dead this time tomorrow.” 

“You’re taking the piss." 

But his prisoner just shrugged and settled. “Watch for the nosebleed, that’ll be next and then we will need to be on the lookout for hyenas as well as rebels.” 

Bodie scoffed, “Wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.” But the seed of doubt had been sown and it scared the hell out of him. He didn’t want Pietersen to be right, but dire prediction or not, Doyle was in desperate need of shelter, rest and hydration. He scanned the skyline but the scene was bleak in every direction. The nearest shade, some distance away under a couple of sizeable trees was all that was on offer. At least it was somewhere they could rest until Doyle was back on his feet. 

“Come on, mate, up you get.” He swung the rifle up, pointing it determinedly at his captive as his left hand hauled his partner up. Doyle was shaking and feverish, eyes squinting against the harsh light and it took all of Bodie’s strength to haul the slim frame to him, supporting him as he indicated with the rifle to the South African. 

“You as well.” 

Oddly compliant, Pietersen obeyed, shuffling to his feet with far less grace than Bodie knew the man to possess. The rifle swung to the small copse. 

“That’s where we’re going.” 

It wasn’t easy, keeping the rifle trained on the bigger man while supporting Doyle but he dare not let his guard down. Pietersen seemed to sense it as well, yet for some reason he stayed well out in front and cooperated. He felt the weight of his partner grow heavier as his legs seemed to fail, dragging and scuffling in the dirt. Sweat ran down his back, between his shoulder blades, itchy and unpleasant, but cooling all the same. 

At the trees, he lowered Doyle to the ground with his back against a trunk while he kept the rifle firmly on his prisoner, directing him to another tree, within sight, but not within reach. Pietersen slid down the trunk to the ground tilting his head back against the tree. The heat was taking its toll on all of them. 

Bodie’s first priority was re-hydrating Doyle because by now he’d have sweated out what he hadn’t already vomited up. He pressed the canteen to his partner's chapped lips but an unexpected trickle of blood from his nose stopped Bodie dead in his tracks. His mouth gaped and he withdrew the canteen, shooting a frantic glance at Pietersen. 

__How the hell could he have known?_ _

“It’s the fever that causes it.” Pietersen sneered. 

Bodie’s mind was racing, “Bullshit. You caused the injury when you head butted him back there.” 

He pinched Doyle’s nose to stem the flow and took the opportunity to examine him more closely. He looked terrible, his skin was flushed with fever, his eyes barely open and his hair was plastered with sweat to his skull but it was his shallow breathing that worried him the most. The speed and intensity of the illness was terrifying and although in hindsight there'd been warnings, he’d been too intent on settling old scores to notice. Like a fool he’d ignored the uncharacteristic lapses of concentration, weariness and muscle fatigue, putting the symptoms down to heat and jet lag. Damn it, he’d always prided himself on being in tune with the aggravating sod. 

Pietersen’s voice broke through his brooding, “Leave him, we’ll have enough trouble getting out of here without him slowing us down.” 

“Piss off.” 

“Look, I’m a realist, out here its survival of the fittest and I’ll tell you right now, Curly ain’t gonna make it.” 

Bodie glared but Pietersen, either stupid or suicidal, pressed his point. 

“Forget your loyalty to CI5, they won’t get you out of this mess Bodie but I can. You remember the old merc code, I know you do.” 

“You’ve lost your marbles if you think I’d turn my back on ‘im and as for the other… you can forget it.” 

“You’re a damn fool but you’ll come around eventually, I just hope its not too late when you do!” 

Bodie snarled, “I’ll rather break your jaw than listen to any more of your belly aching.” 

The menace in his threat had the desired effect and the big man fell silent, leaving Doyle’s wheezing the only sound to fill the void. 

Sharing a tree with his partner, Bodie rested his weary body while his brain worked overtime, contemplating and discarding a number of possibilities. He couldn’t watch Pietersen, support Doyle and keep a look out for rebels at the same time. Unless…he glanced at the South African’s physique, recalling the image on Cowley’s office wall, the antelope slung casually across the man’s broad shoulders. Doyle likely weighed less than that animal and it gave him an idea. 

“Get up.” 

Pietersen looked up in surprise. 

“I said…get up.” He motioned with his weapon and the big man obeyed. “I’m not leaving him behind on your account. Pick him up.” 

“What?” This time his prisoner looked puzzled. 

“You’re going to carry him.” 

“You’re out of your mind, the heat’s got to you.” 

“Never been clearer, this is where you earn your keep, _buddy._ ” 

He removed the handcuff key from Doyle’s neck chain and held it aloft. “You’re carrying him until I say otherwise.” His voice took on a hard edge, “Drop him and you’re dead…got it?" 

“Bullshit, he’s your mate, you do it.” 

“Fine,” Bodie snapped. “Means I have no use for you, then doesn’t it?” He lifted the rifle and took aim. “If I can only take one man back, it won’t be you…make your peace.” 

Pietersen looked at the gun and then back at Bodie, his cold grey eyes holding a hint of confusion. 

“You’d choose him over me, even though its me who can get you out of this mess?" 

“I’m not leaving him. Make up your mind.” The gun barrel stayed fixed on its target. 

The South African stared at him a few seconds more, then to Bodie’s utter surprise, he walked over and bent down to Doyle. 

****** 

Seemingly untroubled by his burden, Pietersen settled into a steady pace with Bodie trailing, his eyes only straying from the body jackknifed over the broad shoulder to check for unwelcome company. How ironic, not for love or money would he have predicted he'd be depending on Pietersen for anything. 

Was Doyle suffering from something more sinister than heat stroke? What the hell was wrong with him? He tried to think; they’d been everywhere together, seen the same people, eaten the same food, been exposed to the same things so it didn’t make sense, why would Doyle be sick and not him? Heat exhaustion was the most logical answer, it was common enough and Ray hadn’t acclimatised well. He’d seen a lot of it during his mercenary days, particularly in those from colder climates but if he was honest with himself, never in someone as fit as Doyle. Then it hit him like a sledgehammer. The street kids, dirty and desperate on the footpath outside the airport. Bloody typical of Ray, squatting to their level, breathing their air, their germy hands on his…that damn wristband. He glared at the plaited leather as the lifeless arm swayed back and forth with the big man’s stride, guilt and regret weighing heavily on his conscience. 

An hour on and Doyle’s weight was beginning to take its toll. Pietersen was still moving forward but his paces were sluggish and clipped revealing his struggle and more than once, his legs bowed, but by sheer strength of will, he held onto his load and forged ahead. 

“Oi! Where do you think you’re going?” Bodie shouted as Pietersen drifted off course. 

“Need to rest,” the big man wheezed, pointing in the direction he was now headed. 

Bodie saw the grove of trees in the distance. 

“Right, we’ll stop there for a bit.” 

As they got closer he realised the dark outline nestled among the trees was a hut and although it's thatch roof was partly collapsed and the walls were crumbling it was a welcome sight. A well and a trough raised hopes of a water supply but any exploration would have to wait until he'd confirmed the place was uninhabited. He signalled Pietersen to hang back as he approached the doorway, moving cautiously along the outer wall, ears straining and rifle raised. Glancing back over his shoulder he saw the big man bent double under Doyle’s weight, gesturing impatiently for him to get on with it. 

Rustling noises from inside snapped his attention back. His pulse quickened, forcing him to rush the opening in time to see a bushy tail disappearing through a hole in the earthen wall. He breathed a sigh of relief, an ancient fire pit in the centre of the circular space and a few scattered gourds were all that remained of its previous inhabitants. Ray could rest here until he was stronger. 

He waved Pietersen in. 

“Take it easy, watch his head.” 

His prisoner did as instructed, setting his burden down with a level of care Bodie hadn’t anticipated. The disturbance brought Doyle’s fevered ramblings to the surface but it wasn't long before he slipped back under and fell silent again. 

Pietersen groaned when Bodie produced the handcuffs but apparently resigned, he held his hands out, wincing as the metal dug into his already bruised skin. 

“Go easy, eh.” 

Surprising himself, Bodie locked the mechanism to prevent the ratchet from tightening, a small concession for the man’s care with Doyle. 

“Thanks.” 

“Over there,” Bodie instructed, tipping his head toward the other side of the hut. Pietersen moved without question, shuffling his feet to the far side, rolling his shoulders and flexing his neck as he collapsed heavily onto the dirt floor. 

Detaching a canteen from Doyle’s belt, Bodie, hurled it across the space then inched himself down the dry mud wall, he might detest the bastard but he wasn’t a sadist. He set the rifles within easy reach, checking their safety and taking stock of their ammunition until he noticed glassy eyes following his movement. 

“Want to sit up?” 

Nodding halfheartedly, Doyle began to push himself up but the movement triggered a coughing fit, forcing Bodie to brace the trembling body until the spasms had subsided. Desperate to get fluid into him, he lifted the canteen to Doyle's mouth but the cantankerous sod was having none of it, pursing his lips and swiping the vessel away. 

“Drink damn you!" 

A snigger from the other side of the hut caused Bodie to lower his voice and double his efforts, “Come on Ray, you’ll feel better if you drink something, you need it mate, you’re dehydrated.” 

Bleary eyes tracked the canteen back but after a few forced mouthfuls Doyle pitched forward and regurgitated the lot, pressing his hand to his head as he slid sideways into Bodie’s lap. 

“Ray?” 

_Lost him again._

Pillowing the curly head on his outstretched leg Bodie could feel the tremors through Doyle's sweat soaked shirt and in desperation he trickled water onto his partner's forehead in the hope of cooling him down. 

“Waste of good water that is.” 

“Yeah, well he’ll get every last drop if he needs it.” 

“Still happy with your diagnosis doc?” 

“He’ll be fine once the fever breaks.” 

“Yeah right, you just keep telling yourself that. Quite frankly he’d be better off with a bullet in him.” 

“Sick bastard.” 

“You wouldn’t let an animal suffer like that. Give _me_ the rifle if you haven’t got the guts.” 

Bodie moved his hand to cover the weapons. “Piss off.” 

The bigger man fell silent and began doodling his finger in the powdery dirt. Eventually, when next he spoke, his condescending tone was missing. “You and me Bodie, we’re cut from the same cloth, we’re survivors, what’s say we put our differences behind us, forget the past and team up. If we don’t you know we’re as good as dead. One man doesn’t stand a chance against an army but two working together, back to back we just might...” 

Bodie snorted at the nerve of the man. 

“But you saw how crazy they are,” Pietersen argued, his voice rising as his composure began to slip. “They shot down the plane for Christ’s sakes, can’t you see how exposed we are?” 

“There's a name for it,” Bodie replied calmly, the irony of the situation not lost on him. "Karma." 

Pietersen fell silent again. 

Slowly, as the afternoon progressed, the shadows in the hut lengthened. Doyle slipped deeper and Pietersen dozed giving Bodie more time than was healthy to contemplate their future. They’d be even more vulnerable when darkness fell and he didn’t need Pietersen to tell him he couldn’t hold off a marauding mob single-handed but what were his options? Putting a rifle in the hands of his prisoner definitely wasn’t one he was considering but he did begin to wonder what made the man tick, what drove him and why hadn’t he tried anything yet? A resourceful soldier would have made a move by now. Gradually his own eyelids began drooping and he knew he had to do something to keep awake. 

“Tell me something.”

Pietersen lifted his head, “Go on." 

“Why human targets?” 

“Fair question,” he replied seemingly unashamed. ”You’re a smart lad, I expect you’re familiar with the economic principal of supply and demand, it was nothing personal, just a money making venture.” 

“Felt bloody personal. Why us?” 

“That’s easy, I needed targets that would justify my outrageous fee and your reputation sealed it.” 

Bodie’s hackles rose but he reined-in his temper. The anger was good, it was helping keep him alert, now if he could just get the bastard to reveal the name of the CI5 traitor he wouldn’t need to keep the son of a bitch alive. 

Pietersen smirked and continued without prompting. “Really out did myself with you two, just the mention of CI5 had the high rollers tripping over themselves to sign up but dead punters aren’t good for business it turns out, still…I made a killing on their entry fees and I did warn 'em you were dangerous.” He shrugged, “I’ll land on my feet again, always do.” 

His indifference was galling but Bodie urged him on with purpose. “How’d you know where we’d be that night? We weren’t followed.” 

“Pretty sure of yourself aren’t you?” 

“With good reason.” Bodie replied, deliberately goading the man, appealing to his ego. 

“You’re right, you weren’t followed, I knew where you’d be thanks to a pathetic little man. The information didn’t come cheap but you wouldn’t expect to pay peanuts for highly classified files now would you? I take my hat off to your Mr Cowley, his attention to detail made my job easy.” 

The betrayal had Bodie seething, even mercenaries had a code of sorts and regardless of how dirty the fighting became, if they had an agreement, their integrity held when it mattered. He copped his first lecture from Crazy Jack as a naive seventeen year old, striding down a narrow gangplank looking for adventure, signing up right there on the dock as a rifle was shoved into his hands, but he'd never forgotten those prophetic words. 

_Aside from the heat there ain’t much in this place you can rely on but if a man in this mob offers you the sanctity of the handshake, you know he’s good for it. Doesn’t mean he’s your mate, but he’ll be true to his word until the jobs done. Of course you’ll return the favour if you want to see British soil again…_

After the sermon, the crazy bastard spat on his palm and extended his hand, his solemn expression confirming it was no joke so Bodie had followed suit, their spit mingling in what felt like a childish game but two days later the game became real and he discovered its true worth. 

His thoughts were back on the stoolie, “Blackmail?” he asked. 

Pietersen scoffed, “Nothing quite so sordid, your man had a sizeable gambling debt, owed some unscrupulous individuals more than his life was worth and he offered his class ‘A’ clearance to the highest bidder. Fortunately for him I was in need of some highly trained agents, so we came to an arrangement.” 

Bodie bristled. Every employee was assessed for a predisposition to addictive behaviour before they signed on. Seems Ross might have something more to worry about than her perfect complexion after all; if they lived to tell the tale. “Give me the name now and I’ll go easy on you.” 

“Do you think I don’t know why you haven’t put a bullet in me yet? You need me, that name's my insurance.” 

Short of beating Pietersen to a pulp which he conceded he didn’t have the energy for, he wasn’t going to get the name this minute but at least he’d learnt something; it wasn’t a woman. Cowley would have to prise the rest out of him while he and Doyle took some well-deserved time off. 

“How many deaths are you responsible for?” 

“Never kept a ledger but I can say you two were my only survivors. Some lasted longer than others, some really surprised me with their persistence but in the end they all finished up as a trophy on some rich punter’s mantle.” 

The image made Bodie feel sick yet Pietersen continued seemingly unperturbed. “It was an interesting trial in human behaviour all in all, the targets always split up, some even sacrificing the other in the hope they would save themselves, but I have to hand it to Curly; he stuck with you even though you slowed him down.” The big man snapped his fingers as if he’d had an epiphany. “That’s why you won’t leave him isn’t it? You owe him,” he added smugly but there was a level of curiosity there as well. 

Bodie ignored him, turning his attention to the restless body laying alongside him. 

“What is it about him that makes him so special?” 

“I don’t expect a cretin like you to understand the concept of loyalty.” 

“Never had much of a need for it.” 

“That’s because you’ve always had a fat purse to buy your way out of trouble.” 

“Survival is all about self-preservation not self-sacrifice, seems CI5 has turned you into a sympathetic fool Bodie. You’ll need to snap out of that if you want to see bonny old England again.” 

“Sod off.” 

Having lost interest in the conversation, Bodie slumped back against the wall, resting one hand protectively on the rifles and the other on his partner’s clammy shoulder. He watched as Pietersen’s head gradually dipped until his chin came to rest on his chest. Despite Bodie's best efforts, he too drifted, until a sudden disturbance had him wide eyed and face to face with a vibrating knife handle protruding from the wall just inches from his ear. Doyle’s knife. 

His eyes flicked back to Pietersen on the other side of the hut. “Psycho bastard.” He wrenched the weapon from the wall, hissing at his own stupidity, he’d not had the presence of mind to check Doyle’s pockets before putting him in the South African’s clutches, a stupid rookie mistake. 

“Losing your edge eh, Bodie?” 

“So what did you hope to achieve?" he asked, ignoring the jibe. 

“Proves you can trust me.” 

Bodie laughed coldly, “How do you figure that?” 

“Could’ve gutted him any time but I didn’t, chew on that for a while tough man.” 

Initially the movement in the over heated body alongside him was a welcome distraction but the intensity of the tremors gathered momentum until he was convulsing and sprouting an incoherent jumble of words. Bodie grappled the thrashing limbs, pinning them down, offering constant reassurance and soothing words until the spasms subsided. 

He slid his palm to his partner’s sweaty forehead, “Jesus, Ray, you’re on fire.” 

“C..c..cold,” Doyle answered breathlessly through chattering teeth. 

Doyle was really ill, more seriously than he had initially thought. The symptoms reminded him of Malaria or Dengue and without medical help they were in serious trouble. 

“You…look…shatt’d.” Doyle’s first lucid words since he’d collapsed. 

“Don’t look too perky yourself Sunshine.” 

“Go f' help…I can’t.” 

Bodie lowered his voice, “And leave you alone with King Kong?” 

Doyle raised his arm. “…cuff ‘im t’ me,” he managed before his arm dropped heavily to the ground. 

“And give him a chance to…” Bodie faltered as fresh blood trickled from his nostril, followed the curve of his cheek and dropped onto the dirt beading like liquid silver. 

“Close aren’t you?” 

A statement, not a question from the other side of the hut. 

“Bugger off,” Bodie answered sharply, smearing the blood with his thumb as he tried to staunch the flow. 

“Clouds your judgement Bodie, there’s no place for friendships in this line of business.” 

Bodie snorted, “That's why I got out when I did, didn’t want to end up a cynical mongrel like you.” 

Doyle’s body unfurled as exhaustion claimed him again, his head falling back over Bodie’s thigh, resting in his lap. “Easy Ray,” he murmured, his gaze falling on the silver chain fluttering in the sweaty hollow of his throat in rhythm with his rapid pulse. 

_Keep fighting it Ray, you can beat this._

“His sight will be the next thing to go,” Pietersen announced casually. “Give it a few hours.” 

Bodie glared at the man sitting opposite, his voice sounding much calmer than he felt when he next spoke. “Alright smart arse, tell me what you know and don't bullshit me, remember, I didn’t come down in the last shower.” 

“You really don’t know do you?” 

Fear was turning Bodie’s stomach sour. “What the hell is it?” 

“Rift Valley fever.” 

“Symptoms?” Bodie snapped, frustrated that he was now at Pietersen’s mercy for information. 

The bigger man’s tone turned condescending. “Well let's see, nosebleeds, vomiting, fever and delirium but you already know all of that don't you? What you really want is Curly’s future prognosis.” 

The bastard was enjoying himself. “Get on with it,” he snarled. 

“Alright keep your shirt on. Its a haemorrhagic virus, not dissimilar from Ebola or Dengue.” 

Bodie groaned. _God no._

"The internal bleeding will do him in, his organs are already beginning to shut down. He'll turn a fetching shade of yellow when his liver gives up the ghost and then it's game over. Want some advice?" 

“No.” 

“Start digging the hole now.” 

Bodie’s churning gut told him there was some truth in Pietersen’s words and it made him feel nauseous. Was it shock that had him feeling like throwing up too? What if it wasn’t? What if he was coming down with the virus too? If he became ill, who would look after Ray? Pietersen had made it painfully clear what he’d do if he got the chance. 

“How contagious is it?” 

“Worried are you?” 

“Answer the damn question.” 

“Well there’s still time for you to get infected if that’s what you’re wondering, hell knows why it strikes one and not the other. You might be lucky like me and have a natural immunity but I wouldn’t recommend swapping spit with the boy.” 

He ignored the crack and lowered his eyes again, mesmerised by the thready pulse and flickering eyelids. Doyle was fading and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do, couldn’t move him, couldn’t leave him, couldn’t do any bloody thing. 

_Keep it together Bodie._

Doyle’s heavy head felt like a damp furnace against his thigh and he itched to move but he dare not chance it while his patient was somewhat peaceful, instead he brushed the sweat soaked hair from his face and dabbed cooling water onto his forehead. 

He could feel Pietersen’s scrutiny from the other side of the hut. “Look, I don’t give a toss if he lives or dies but what seems to have escaped your pea brain is how exposed we are out here. He’s useless,” he said nodding at Doyle, “I’m shackled and you can only use one of those at a time,” he said eyeing the weapons. 

“Christ, stop badgering me, let me think.” 

Pietersen exploded. “Good god man, you’ve got no choice, un-cuff me and give me a weapon or we’ll end up in a grave alongside him.”

“Shut your cake hole.” 

Pietersen tilted his head back against the wall, sighed deeply and fell silent. 

Bodie’s mind was racing, Rift Valley fever? He mulled it over, why hadn’t he heard of it? He examined Doyle for jaundice but it was impossible to tell in the fading light. 

Eventually the bigger man raised his head and their eyes met, his tone subdued. “I’ve got a proposition and you need to hear me out, for Curly’s sake.” 

Bodie nodded, realising he had nothing to lose except his temper, Pietersen's change of demeanour had him curious. 

“I’m not stupid Bodie, a blind man could see my survival hinges on old matey over there, when he croaks you’ll do your nut and kill me anyway, revenge, anger, spite, hell probably all three, so I want to deal.” 

“Don’t deal with narcissists.” 

“Ja bloody pig headed fool, watch my lips, “I…can…save him.” 

Bodie’s anger reached flash point. “What, you’ll just pop down the corner store for a box of paracetamol, eh? You’re on bloody dangerous ground Pietersen, don’t toy with me.” 

“Watch him die then.” 

Bodie simmered, torn between stupid damn pride and a faint spark of hope. Hope won out. “What’s your fairy story then?” 

“Bush medicine, I know enough to keep him going until you get him to medical help.” 

Bodie sobered quickly, cursing himself a thousand ways for his stubbornness. Instantly memories of medicine men and bush remedies and a solider brought back from the brink with simple poultices and home-made herbal concoctions filled his head. 

_Christ, It might just work._

“Go on,” he urged, cautiously optimistic. 

“See those trees out there,” Pietersen said, nodding at the doorway. “It’s Curly's lucky day because one of 'em's a Jackelberry. They’re not particularly common but there's one right outside this hut. I can make a brew that’ll give him a better than even chance of surviving.” 

_That’s all he needs, a better than even chance._

“How does it work?” 

“Tannin in the roots clots blood and‘ll stop the haemorrhage and the leaves and bark contain a substance that mimics acetaminophen which will reduce his fever.” 

“Well, what are we waiting for?” 

“Not so fast tough man, we’ve some negotiat’n to do first, what’s he worth to you?” 

Bodie, knew it was a loaded question. Doyle was the negotiator of the team, could talk a fish out of water but Bodie knew, without even thinking about it, he’d deal with the devil if it meant saving his partner. 

“What's your proposal?” 

“My freedom in exchange for Curly’s life and to sweeten the deal, I’ll help you get him to the border. I wasn’t joking when I said our chances were improved by sticking together only this time it won’t be me hauling him around, it’ll be you and I’ll be having one of those rifles as well.” 

“Steady on.” Bodie hesitated, there were no guarantees that Pietersen would or even could achieve what he claimed. Cowley would be furious, but in reality there was no contest and he would have given his word with his next breath but for the irritating voice needling him but that Scottish brogue at least had him thinking like an agent again. 

“Two conditions.” 

The big man nodded. 

“First, you don’t get a weapon until we part company and second, I get the name of your CI5 snitch. Neither are negotiable, take it or leave it.” 

Now it was Pietersen’s turn to mull it over while Bodie waited, his bottom lip rolling between his teeth with anticipation. 

Eventually Pietersen held up his manacled wrists. “I’d feel a lot happier with a rifle in my hands.” 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Touché!” 

“Without the runs on the board, you get nothing.” 

“Untrusting bugger aren’t you? I’ll hang onto the name then, you’ll get it when I get the weapon.” 

Bodie nodded his agreement. He could hardly believe Pietersen had agreed to his terms so easily but he reminded himself the man was facing a long stretch inside if they made it back. 

“What do you need?” 

Pietersen reached for his pocket but with the knife incidence still fresh in his mind, Bodie was quick with his rifle. “Easy.” 

The cuffed hands stilled, “My lighter.” 

Bodie nodded, but the weapon stayed on target, he was a long way from trusting the man. Pietersen slid his fingers into his pocket, manoeuvrering the bracelets for access and after a few awkward attempts he produced a small silver lighter. He juggled it into his palm and flicked the cap producing a tiny flame before snapping it shut with a satisfied grin. Bodie lowered his rifle. 

“What else?” 

“Wood for a fire, bark, leaves and roots from the Jackleberry, water and a something to boil it in.” 

Bodie eyed the blacken gourds left by the hut’s previous inhabitants. “They do?” 

“They'll probably hold up, if not we'll have to come up with something else.” 

“So how do we get it into him?” 

“There’s no _we_ about it, he’s your mate.” 

Bodie lifted Doyle’s head from his leg and slid sideways out from under him prompting a flow of irrational, one-sided conversation. 

“If you’re pulling my leg, Pietersen, it won’t be the crazies out there you need to be worried about.” 

The big man straightened, “Christ, how stupid _are_ you? I don’t want to spend the rest of my days in an English prison any more than you want him dead so from where I sit it’s pretty bloody simple, if we work together we both have a chance at getting what we want.” 

Bodie resigned himself to a veneer of trust. “Go, do what you have to.” 

“What about these?” Pietersen whined, raising his cuffed hands. 

“They stay on, you’re my prisoner until I see results.” 

He watched as the big man struggled to his feet and trudged unescorted from the hut, glaring over his shoulder as he did. Bodie clambered stiffly to his feet, stretching his cramped shoulders when a gurgling noise had him whipping back around. 

_Bloody hell._

He was alongside Doyle in a heartbeat, turning him roughly, extending his neck and angling his head to clear his blocked airway but he continued to gag until he had nothing more to yield. 

“Keep breathing mate, come on Ray…breathe.” 

The convulsions gradually eased and he stabilised again, settling back into a regular rhythm of shallow panting breaths. 

Bodie was shaking, “Jesus Ray, give me some warning next time.” Sitting back on his heels he drew a quivering breath; if he’d been outside with Pietersen, Doyle would have choked. With a heavy heart and a mounting sense of futility, he glanced at the rifles. What on earth had he been thinking when he agreed to let Pietersen walk? Damn leaves and bark weren’t going to save Doyle. He tried to imagine explaining the loss to Cowley and decided then he could never go back, not without Ray. He closed his eyes willing exhaustion to take him, but the soldier in himwouldn't allow it. Gradually he returned to his senses, giving up had never been his style so why consider it now? He promised himself that while there was still life in the golly he’d never give up. So with renewed enthusiasm, he re-positioned Doyle’s lax body to stop him rolling onto his back and pushed two fingers into his jugular, struggling for purchase on the sweat-slicked skin. The beat was feeble but it was there and that was all that mattered. Next, he turned his attention to the weapons, ejecting the rounds and pocketing the magazines, securing Doyle’s supply in his own pockets, rendering the rifles useless to anyone else. 

With the weapons sorted and Doyle as secure as he could be, he collapsed back against the wall and took a swig from his canteen, just enough to wet his lips, leaving the last of it for his partner…if he ever woke up. 

He stirred, confused by the smoke and the change in light, realising with a start that he’d dozed off despite his best intentions, but his confusion quickly turned to shock at the sight of Pietersen kneeling at the fire pit, blowing steadily on a new-born flame. Running his hand through his tangled hair, Bodie glanced about noting the rifles were untouched and Doyle was just as he’d left him. 

“Back with me now?” Pietersen asked, not lifting his eyes from the growing flame. 

Bodie squeezed the wiry shoulder alongside him, reassured by the radiant heat. 

_Still with me then Sunshine._

Bodie cleared his throat of the vestiges of sleep, “Thought I’d seen the last of you." 

“Had the chance, don’t make me regret not taking it,” the big man replied still focussed on the flame in front of him. 

“Got everything you need?” Bodie asked. 

Pietersen nodded, “There’s a decent supply of water in the well and if this gourd holds together we’re in business. I’ll need more firewood though to keep this going all night, he’ll need more than one dose.” 

Bodie stood, working the kinks from his spine and flexing stiff muscles, grateful to have something to occupy his mind. 

“Watch him,” he said as he hooked both rifles over his shoulder and walked to the door, “Don’t let him roll onto his back.” 

“Trust me.” 

Despite the offensive thought, he was convinced Pietersen had more to lose than gain by letting harm come to Doyle so he walked stiffly out into the fading light in search of firewood. 

A quick sweep of the nearby area proved fruitful and he returned with an armful of branches, dropping them in a pile alongside the fire before bending over the simmering liquid and wrinkling his nose at the repugnant odour. 

Pietersen smirked. “It’ll taste worse than it smells.” 

“Tough, he’ll be drinking it.” 

“BODIE!” 

The cry startled him and he moved quickly to catch his partner’s flailing arms. 

“I’m here.” 

“I...I can’t see." 

Bodie’s voice lifted an octave, “It’s okay Ray, its temporary, it’ll pass.” His throat constricted, he didn’t trust himself to continue. Any other time Doyle would have picked up the uncertainty in his voice but at the moment he had no idea what was going through his thick head. He looked to Pietersen. “How long until it’s ready?” 

“Doesn’t come with instructions,” the South African replied irritably as he began gingerly picking leaves and bark from the steaming hot liquid. “Once the vision goes though…” 

Bodie’s look of thunder enough to stop the ominous warning cold and Pietersen returned his attention to his task. 

Doyle’s voice was barely a whisper, “…I’m losing it Bodie…can’t beat it.” 

“You don’t get off that lightly, you owe me,” he said past the growing lump constricting his throat. 

“Here,” Doyle replied breathlessly, lightly tapping his shirt pocket. 

“More than a bloody fiver mate...” But his words died on his lips as Doyle sagged in his arms. 

_You owe me a bloody good fight, that's what you owe me._

With considerable effort, Bodie inched himself backward dragging his partner with him until he felt the wall at his back. He manoeuvered the dead weight between his outstretched legs, supporting Doyle's heavy head over the crook of his arm while he absently brushed hair from his face. 

Pietersen cleared his throat. “Careful, it’s hot.” 

Bodie knew he was in trouble when he realised Pietersen had set the gourd down alongside him without his knowledge, too distracted and too fatigued to keep tabs on the man. He kidded himself the foul smelling liquid was probably no hotter than its intended destination and scoffed at his original plan to make the South African drink from it first, the urgency outweighing his need for caution. 

Bodie flexed his bicep to rouse his drowsy partner, “Ray, listen to me. I’ve got a drink here, it's going to help. It won’t taste too good and it’s hot but you have to keep it down, okay? You’ll feel better, I promise.” The truth of it was he had no idea what effect it would have but he was desperate enough to promise anything. “I’ll do all the work, you just have to swallow. Can you manage that?” 

The nod was barely detectable but Doyle’s chapped lips parted in anticipation. 

_Good lad._

Bodie blew across the top of the gourd before trickling a small amount into Doyle’s mouth, triggering an instant reaction. Doyle's face contorted and he pressed his lips together in an effort to keep it down but he retched as his stomach rejected the swill. 

“No, no, no,” Bodie cried. “Keep it down mate, come on.” 

Panicking, he dug his fingers into Doyle’s jaw, bruising and lifting his neck as he clamped his mouth shut while the convulsions wracked his weakened body. 

“Come on Ray, fight it, breathe through your nose, that’s it.” 

__He rode out the spasms until Doyle slumped back against him panting, the liquid consumed._ _

__“Made hard work of that Sunshine.”_ _

__“T’is ‘orrible."_ _

__“Just think of me as a Mary Poppins.”_ _

__“Too…bloody ugly,” he replied between gulps of air. “And where’s…the sugar?” he added like a petulant child._ _

__Heartened by the snarky response, Bodie continued the process over the next hour, prodding his patient to keep him awake while he painstakingly fed him small amounts, clamping his mouth shut until the liquid had been swallowed and his urge to vomit had passed. Then, when the gourd had been drained, Bodie let him slip into a fitful sleep._ _

__“You might as well do the same,” Pietersen said quietly from beside the fire. “The next batch won’t be ready for a while.”_ _

__“Not tired,” he lied._ _

__Pietersen’s voice sharpened, “Look Bodie, I won’t ever be on your Christmas card list, I get that, but hell, are you really that pig-headed? You’re almost catatonic, look at you, you’re no use to me like that.”_ _

__Bodie’s cynical comeback died on his lips and as much as it galled him, the man was right._ _

__“Stop fighting me Bodie, if you don’t we’re as good as dead, you’re the only one who can defend us…remember?” Pietersen raised his cuffed hands to push home his point. “Right now, right this bloody minute, I’m not the enemy.” He tipped his head at the doorway, “It’s the mad bastards out there you need to be worried about."_ _

__Reluctantly Bodie wriggled out from under Doyle and gently rolled him into the recovery position. “Wake me if...”_ _

__“Just get your head down, I’ll be watching.”_ _

__Bodie, felt himself slide sideways into oblivion before he had time to reconsider._ _

__His next awareness was that of a broad hand on his shoulder gently shaking him. He groaned as he opened his eyes onto Pietersen’s ugly mug just inches away._ _

__“Wake me at 0700,” he said as he rose to his feet._ _

__“Doyle?” Bodie rasped, his throat in desperate need of lubrication._ _

__“Still with us. The next batch is ready.”_ _

__“Thanks,” he croaked as he watched Pietersen trudge to the other side of the hut where he collapsed, rolling onto his side with his back to the fire, his head pillowed on his hands. Minutes later muffled snores confirmed he was asleep._ _

__Bodie stood and rubbed his thigh where the magazines in his pocket had dug in. After raking his hair with his fingers, he reached for the canteen, eyeing Doyle in the firelight as he swished a mouthful around his gums and swallowed. He angled his watch in the available light, half five._ _

__“Ray?” he said softly, laying his palm on his partner’s forehead and immediately detecting an improvement. He was no longer sweating like a man in a Turkish bath and he was noticeably cooler, even his breathing had evened out._ _

Bodie glanced over the top of the fire at the sleeping giant, grateful for what he'd achieved. It seemed a shame to wake the patient but the next dose was ready so he squeezed his arm. “Ray, you need to wake up.” 

“Leave me alone,” Doyle mumbled, flicking his hand from Bodie’s grasp. 

__“You can sleep after you’ve had the next dose.”_ _

__“Piss off, Bodie,”_ _

___Oh, definitely lucid now._ _ _

__Doyle yawned, exposing his tonsils. “Owww” he protested, dabbing at a fresh split in his lip, cracking first one eye open and then the other, blinking in the light._ _

__

__Bodie raised a finger and moved it across his partner's eyes, anxiously holding his breath until red-rimmed eyes focussed and followed the movement. Giddy with relief he wiggled two digits in front of him. “How many?” he asked expectantly._ _

__“Berk,” Doyle grumbled. “Haven’t forgotten how to count you know.”_ _

__The irritation was good, textbook Doyle, the ill-tempered bugger was back. “So, do you think you can keep this lot down?”_ _

__Doyle shook his head gingerly, “I'll have some plain water first, my stomach's still queasy.”_ _

__Bodie hauled him upright and passed the canteen. Doyle wasn’t out of the woods yet but then none of them were considering…._ _

__“Oi! Not all at once.”_ _

__He wrenched the canteen away when he noticed how much the daft bugger was downing._ _

__Doyle closed his eyes and slumped back against the earthen wall, his hand resting on his swollen belly. “Might have over-done it.”_ _

__“Do you think?”_ _

__“Where are we anyway?” Doyle asked, finally showing an interest in his surroundings._ _

__Bodie beamed, “Somalia my son, sunny and hot just like the brochures promised.”_ _

__Doyle prised one eye open again, “Where in bloody Somalia?”_ _

__“Would you believe a charming desert hideaway full of old world charm just a scenic stroll from the Kenyan border?”_ _

__“Ya clown,” Doyle scowled. “And Pietersen?”_ _

__“Sleeping like a baby.”_ _

__“How long have we been here?”_ _

__“You don’t remember?”_ _

__“I remember the plane going down but not much after…fill me in.”_ _

__Christ, where to start? He didn’t fancy explaining the agreement he'd made with Pietersen just yet, Doyle was stroppy enough already. “We'll talk later, right now we have to get this swill down your throat.”_ _

__But true to form Doyle persisted, “What is it you're not telling me Bodie? What happened to me for starters?”_ _

__"Pietersen reckons its a virus, Rift Valley fever."_ _

__“Felt like I was dying.”_ _

__Bodie shuddered. “Reckon you might ‘ave been…but you’re on the mend now.”_ _

__Doyle turned pale._ _

__“Going to be sick?”_ _

__Not waiting for confirmation, Bodie, gently pushed his partner's head down between his knees, rubbing the heel of his hand between his shoulder blades. “Keep it down Ray, come on deep breaths, in…and out…in…and out.”_ _

__Doyle's muffled voice rose from between his knees. “How’d we get ‘ere?”_ _

_Stubborn bastard, give it up._

__Clearing his throat, Bodie rubbed a little firmer, “I had Pietersen carry you.”_ _

__“Bodie!” Doyle's temper flared despite his defenceless position. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Let me up!”_ _

__Even in this condition the snarky bugger demanded attention. He helped him up._ _

__“Okay, just hear me out and don’t say anything until I’m finished,” Bodie said as he launched into his explanation. “I’ve agreed to let Pietersen go when we reach Kenya, a trade-off for saving your scrawny backside.” Pressing on before he could be interrupted, he added, “On condition he coughs up the name of the rat who sold us out.”_ _

__True to form, Doyle didn’t disappoint._ _

__“Damn it Bodie, Cowley will have our…”_ _

__But his angry outburst prompted a coughing fit which ended with both their laps saturated in warm liquid vomit._ _

__“Sorry mate,” Doyle muttered through lips laced with spit as he listed sideways._ _

Resigned, Bodie checked his airway and put him back on his side, tossed some wood on the fire and left the hut for a long overdue leak, the next dose would have to wait. He wondered idly how much of their conversation Doyle would remember, hoping he didn't need to explain it again. Once was bad enough. 

__He walked, cartwheeling his arms and stretching, trying to ignore the hollow pit in his stomach. It had been over twenty four hours since they’d last eaten and he was running on empty but on the positive side Doyle’s fever had eased, his sight had returned and mercifully he was lucid again so if he could keep the next batch of brew down there was a better than even chance they’d be able to get moving again._ _

__Shades of pink and gold tinted the horizon as the sun began to show itself and he took a moment to enjoy the balmy dawn because he knew in a few short hours the temperature would be unbearable again. He sauntered to the well where he stripped to his underwear and splashed himself with the brackish water, scrubbing away as much of the sweat and stench as he could but there was little he could do to sweeten his clothes. Checking the map he was optimistic that a day of solid marching would have them linking up with the road that would lead them to the border but they needed to find the track that would take them to the highway._ _

__His skin dried quickly in the warm air and he redressed himself but as he buckled his belt a distant droning noise reached his ears. He spun one eighty degrees and identified the source, a fast moving open top jeep approaching at breakneck speed. His blood ran cold and in that moment he knew exactly what he had to do._ _

__“We’ve got company,” he shouted as he raced back into the hut, ripping two magazines from his pocket._ _

__Pietersen, the consummate soldier, sat bolt upright, ready for action within seconds of waking. “What have we got?”_ _

__“One jeep, five minutes tops,” he replied with an economy of words, throwing the hand cuff key to the South African._ _

__Bodie rammed a magazine into each rifle, tossing one to Pietersen who had quickly freed himself. Both actioned their weapons in unison, catching the other’s eye as they did. Bodie nodded curtly and Pietersen responded in kind, trust was now inevitable._ _

__Bodie dropped to his knees at Doyle's side, shaking him roughly until he stirred. “Listen Ray, we’ve got trouble.” He pulled the flick knife from his belt, released the blade and wrapped Doyle’s fingers around the handle, squeezing them tightly as if he could make them stick. “Take it.”_ _

__Doyle took the weapon but it was clear from his shaky grip and sluggish response his symptoms were returning._ _

__“Last resort Sunshine, if they get past us…” He paused, reconsidering, “Look, forget the knife, just play dead, I've got to go Ray.”_ _

__The engine noise was growing louder and with a ruffle of his partner’s lank curls, he was gone._ _

__“I’ll pick ‘em off from there,” Pietersen shouted, pointing to the low stone wall circling the well. “You keep them entertained from here and I’ll flank ‘em.” Adding almost as an afterthought, “You right with that?”_ _

__Bodie threw a spare magazines to the bigger man. “Stop flapping your gums and go,” but the South African was already gone, their tactical discussion over._ _

__He watched as the big man ran doubled over, surprisingly agile considering his size, to the dry stone wall where he dove out of sight just as the jeep rounded the side of the hut and came to a skidding halt a hundred yards out. Bodie groaned as five heavily armed, dark skin men wearing combat fatigues climbed out._ _

__They milled about on the far side of the jeep, apparently unhurried despite the urgency of their arrival and judging by their indifference they expected to confront local tribesman, not pale foreigners armed and dangerous. The aroma of pungent tobacco confirmed they were neither in a rush or feeling particularly threatened._ _

__Bodie’s rifle was cocked and set to semi-auto, the safety was off and every ounce of his concentration was on the armed men but as the minutes passed and nothing happened, his agitation grew._ _

_Just get on with it._

__Eventually they ground their butts into the dirt, actioned their rifles and casually formed up behind an older man, their leader if the braid on his uniform was anything to go by. Unbelievably he stood out in the open, exposed and oblivious to the impending danger; he’d pay dearly for assuming the only threat he faced was from primitive weapons, but the leader’s casual attitude didn’t fool him, rebel mobs like this weren’t known for taking prisoners, it was kill or be killed._ _

__“Kom uit nou, jy daar,” the older man shouted in the direction of the hut._ _

__Bodie didn’t flinch and for every second that no-one presented, the tension grew. He flicked his eyes to the well and wondered if Pietersen would do the honourable thing or make good his escape now he was armed and the cuffs were off._ _

__The commander shouted again, “As jy kom nie uit nou daar sal moeilikheid.”_ _

___Looking for trouble? Well you’ve found it old man._ _ _

__Bodie stole a look in Doyle’s direction instantly regretting it._ _

__“Kom nou uit, jy is daar of jy dood sal wees!”_ _

__His attention was back on their leader. It was his third unheeded demand and judging by the agitation in his voice he wasn’t going to make it to four._ _

__Bodie’s finger caressed the trigger, taking up the smallest slack in the mechanism, knowing precisely how much pressure it would take to end a life. Once the old man was out of the equation the mob would be leaderless until another stepped up to take his place, and, in that moment of confusion, he would press home his advantage. The sniper's mantra repeated over and over in his head, helping regulate his breathing, centering himself until mind and body became one with the weapon._ _

_One shot, one kill._

__The Commander’s eyes narrowed and his fist uncurled an inch from his side arm; it was the 'tell' Bodie had been waiting for so, unburdened by his conscience, he dispatched the shot. The explosion at his ear and the bruising recoil shattered his trance. The dumb bastards didn’t twig fast enough that their leader was dead, a corpse before he hit the ground giving Bodie enough time to adjust his aim and fire again. Now there were two bodies leaking blood into the sandy soil and their odds had improved significantly._ _

__Belly to the ground, Bodie, inched his way back into the shadows expecting the violence to be returned tenfold and he wasn’t disappointed._ _

__The hut’s earthen walls proved no match for the deadly onslaught as shells penetrated unimpeded, turning their temporary haven into a deadly shooting gallery. The remaining rebels had regrouped and were advancing now, this time more wary, using the cover of the trees having learnt quickly by their leader’s mistake. Thankfully though they weren’t astute enough to lower their trajectory or he’d have been turned into a sieve within seconds._ _

__A whimper distracted him._ _

__“Get down,” he yelled, at the sight of his partner, knife in hand, inching his way up the wall. “Get down!” But incredibly the senseless idiot continued his suicidal mission._ _

__Fuelled by adrenaline, Bodie, scrambled to his knees and rolled across the opening in one swift move, knocking Doyle flat as he took his legs out from under him. They both landed with a grunt._ _

__“No point…bringing a knife…to a gun fight!” Bodie yelled between bursts of automatic gunfire. “Stay down…the walls aren’t bullet proof and neither are you!”_ _

__Not hanging about for an answer, Bodie slithered on his stomach back to the doorway and re-assessed. The enemy were closer now, weaving and shouting, firing as they ran from cover to cover, forcing him to keep his head down and his weapon clutched to his chest. When next he risked a look he caught a flash of movement a stone’s throw away but before he could get a bead on it a fresh stream of gunfire forced his head back down._ _

_Too bloody close!_

__In a last ditched effort he loaded his last magazine, set his weapon to automatic and hoisted it above his head firing blindly until the firing pin inevitably hit an empty chamber. His rifle fell ominously silent._ _

_Sorry Ray…_

__Then, unexpectedly, the closest, gunman arched backwards, a projectile punching through his chest sending him crashing to the ground. Seconds later, before Bodie had a chance to make sense of it, another gunman careened face first into the dirt, a clipped cry marking his end of days and prompting the remaining soldier to drop and shimmy backward, seeking the refuge of the jeep._ _

__Bodie glanced toward the well. Pietersen’s rifle was visible just above the wall._ _

__The temporary hush that had fallen across the battlefield was shattered by a single rifle crack and Bodie watched as the crawling man jerked and slumped. Pietersen rose from his concealed position, sweeping his weapon across the killing ground as he reached full height, surveying the scene with a satisfied smirk. The sly bastard had come through in the end but Bodie wondered perversely if he’d deliberately cut it fine._ _

__Bodie left the hut heading for the jeep, making certain the soldiers were no longer a threat as he passed their bloodied bodies. Pietersen had beaten him there and was already jack-knifed over the side, rummaging through its contents but as Bodie approached, the big man stilled and swung his rifle up at Bodie’s chest. Bodie faltered, staring at the mouth of the barrel trained on him while his own empty weapon hung uselessly over his shoulder._ _

___Pietersen couldn’t miss._ _ _

__With his heart pounding, Bodie braced himself but the South African merely rolled his eyes, lowered the weapon and resumed his search._ _

__“Can’t find the key,” he announced evenly._ _

__Bodie turned away, concealing his trembling hands as he strode to the nearest corpse._ _

__“I’ll check the bodies,” he shouted pulling the handgun from the commander’s holster, Pietersen had him dead to rights yet didn’t take the shot. Why?_ _

__The sound of the jeep’s engine cranking over was a welcome relief. He engaged the pistol’s safety and stowed it in his waistband before collecting the unused 39mm ammo which was littered about._ _

__“Get in,” Pietersen instructed as the jeep pulled up alongside him._ _

__He dumped the loose ammo into the footwell and swung lithely over the half door dropping into the front passenger seat as the vehicle pitched forward covering the short distance to the hut._ _

__“Get Curly, we’re leaving.”_ _

_You’ll get no argument from me on that score._

Leaping out, Bodie strode into the shadowy interior of the hut noting with relief the prized gourd was still upright and in one piece just where he'd left it but his joy turned to anguish when his eyes settled on the lifeless body slumped on the far side of the fire pit. He stupidly hadn't checked the dozy sod for holes before he’d bolted outside. 

_Oh God._

__His heart pounded, the adrenaline too much too soon after the gunfight but he steadied himself, took a deep breath and forced himself to cross the dusty floor, but as his eyes adjusted to the light he spied the flick knife in the corpse’s white knuckled grip. He couldn’t believe it, the pillock deserved an Academy award for his performance. He approached warily, even in Doyle's weakened state he was capable of thrusting that knife with deadly accuracy._ _

__“Doyle…Ray?” he said softly. “It’s me.”_ _

__He prodded Doyle’s thigh with his boot and was rewarded with a roguish grin as his eyes blinked opened._ _

__“Thought you’d joined the angels,” he croaked._ _

__“Nar not me mate, fire and brimstone's more my future, come on, we’re checking out.”_ _

__Doyle snorted, “Didn’t think much of the hospitality anyway. Help me up."_ _

__Bodie crouched, wrapped his arm around his partner’s waist and easily hauled him up. “You’ll need to put some weight on these bones Ray, Towser would snap you in two.”_ _

__“Forget Towser, I reckon Betty could make a go of it right now.”_ _

__Doyle stiffened at the sight of Pietersen behind the wheel but said nothing as Bodie propped him against the passenger’s side of the vehicle. “Wait there.”_ _

__“Leaving in five,” Pietersen shouted as he left the vehicle and began striding toward the well, canteens in hand and rifle hooked over his shoulder._ _

__“We leave when I say,” Bodie shouted at the broad back, throwing out a challenge but the big man brushed him off with a wave and kept walking. The dynamics of their trio had shifted significantly now that Pietersen was armed and it made Bodie nervous._ _

__Looking at the gourd in his hand and then at Doyle, he braced himself for a repeat performance but he needn’t have worried, Doyle was wise to the brew's value now and forced the lot down himself between bouts of eye watering retching which had Bodie gagging in sympathy with him._ _

__Pietersen returned with full canteens and after a short reprieve for his partner’s queasy belly, they headed off with the big man driving, Bodie in the navigator’s seat and Doyle splayed out in the back._ _

__“North west,” Bodie pointed after consulting with the compass. “And don’t spare the horses.”_ _

__Pietersen nodded, crunched the gears and sent them racing forward. “You might want to hang on.”_ _

__******_ _

__They headed north-west across country, the same direction from which the soldiers had come. Bodie knew it was a gamble, he was either leading them into salvation or straight into the devil's lair._ _

__The vehicle pitched and dipped as it cut a virgin path across the desert floor, aggravating Bodie’s burgeoning headache but where the ground levelled out Pietersen sped up, as keen as he was to see the back of this place. Bone jarring vibrations and buffeting winds hindered conversation so they travelled in silence, keeping their thoughts to themselves._ _

__Studying the man in the driver’s seat, he tried to consolidate him with the psycho who’d made targets of them a little over two months ago. Back then the callous bastard had wanted them dead purely for profit so it begged the question, what game was he playing now? Was he planning to put a bullet into both of them when their backs were turned? Seemed unlikely considering he’d already had the opportunity but maybe he was waiting until they were within sight of sanctuary. The man was an enigma, a mystery too hard to crack with a pounding head so he focussed on the job at hand. He’d decide what to do with him later when his head didn’t hurt so much._ _

__Glancing back he was satisfied Doyle was stable enough with knees bent and boots braced against the jeep’s frame but despite keeping the next dose down, he still looked like death warmed up. His clothes, stiff with sweat and vomit, hung like oversize rags on his thinner than usual frame, his matted hair was turning to dreads and his damaged cheek was even more pronounced but Bodie was hopeful a good feed, a long soak and a decent sleep would fix the worst of it. Doyle was a fighter, he’d make it._ _

__He turned his attention back to the landscape in search of the track, concentrating to the west of their current path. Some twenty minutes later, he shouted, well pleased with himself, elbowing Pietersen whose gaze followed his outstretched arm. The big man grinned and, without slowing he yanked the wheel to the left, lifting the driver’s side wheels with his reckless manoeuvre._ _

__“Oi, careful,” Bodie shouted, gripping the seat._ _

__“Made it didn’t we?” the big man replied enthusiastically as the wheels touched down and Bodie realised it was the first genuine smile he'd seen from him._ _

__Glancing back, he was relieved to see Doyle hadn’t been tossed to the floor._ _

__Pietersen aligned the wheels with the two furrowed strips and as if he’d read Bodie’s mind, he accelerated harshly. “How far to the junction?” he yelled._ _

__“Forty mile give or take.”_ _

__The discovery was important, they were on the right path now and every mile down was a mile closer to civilisation. Bodie let his mind wander to rescue and home, his own comfortable bed, a long hot soak and a decent feed but rather perversely Cowley found his way into his happy day dream and the future didn’t look quite as rosy anymore. George bloody Cowley. He’d need to be on his toes for that conversation, the old man wasn’t going to be happy if they returned without their prisoner and no amount of fast talking would convince him he had a choice in the matter. The responsibility for the debacle fell squarely on his own shoulders and he'd make sure Doyle was kept well out of it._ _

__Then, like a cruel joke, the engine began to chug, lurching erratically as it lost momentum but one look at the set of the driver’s jaw and Bodie knew it was no stunt. The jeep coasted to a silent stop in the middle of nowhere._ _

__Pietersen lent forward tapping firmly on the glass but the needle didn’t move from empty. “F’r Christ sake, it was three quarters full an hour ago.”_ _

__A hurried examination of the undercarriage revealed two bullet holes in the fuel tank, something they’d been blissfully unaware of until now. Bodie kicked the tyre, hard. His toes smarted but it did nothing to alleviate his frustration which was compounded by the dawning realisation the offending rounds had most likely come from his own weapon. What a right cock-up!_ _

__Pietersen wandered off, cursing loudly enough to wake the dead._ _

__Doyle stirred. “What’s up?” he croaked, clearing his throat. “Why ’ve we stopped?”_ _

__“Fuel, we don’t have any, it's shank’s pony from here.”_ _

__“Nice day for it,” Doyle replied quietly, his eyes screwed shut as he turned his face up to the cloudless sky. “I’ll be right behind you,” he added casually._ _

__“Bollocks Ray, it’s a setback, that’s all, we can do this but we do it together. You don’t think I’m going to explain this to Cowley on my own do you?” His voice hitched and he turned, busying himself with his canteen._ _

___“Ya bloody sentimental fool, there’ll be no sacrifices on my account Bodie and we had a deal remember? The one where you get to do all the explaining? That I remember!”_ _ _

__Their eyes met after an awkward silence._ _

__“Keep it down this time eh?” Bodie said handing the canteen over. “Or you’ll get the bill for the cleaning."_ _

__The corner of Doyle’s mouth lifted. “It’d be Cowley’s expense chit, not mine.”_ _

__Bodie capped the bottle after Doyle’s swig, deciding to wait a while longer for himself. Doyle’s need was greater._ _

__They abandoned the jeep and began trudging toward Kenya, following Pietersen who was striding ahead in the wheel ruts. Bodie’s legs protested as he dragged one dusty boot in front of the other in a repeat of the previous day’s ordeal only now they were hungrier, thirstier and weaker but more disturbing was the altered dynamics of their little group. Twenty four hours ago he would have scoffed at the suggestion of arming Pietersen. What the hell would Cowley make of it? Doyle too? His partner hadn’t said much but Bodie knew the inquisition was coming._ _

__For the first few miles Doyle put in a herculean effort, digging deep and shrugging off help, but the heat and his lingering illness began taking its toll. Pietersen continued at a steady pace and the gap between them grew until he was just a small figure in the distance._ _

__Bodie slowed, took hold of Doyle’s wrist and ducked under his arm to support him but the obstinate bugger shrugged him off._ _

__“I’m alright,” he muttered._ _

__“Damn it Doyle, stop with the bloody superman act.”_ _

__They trudged on side by side, shoulder to shoulder until Doyle staggered sideways pulling Bodie down with him as he collapsed._ _

__Doyle sighed and dabbed at his weathered lip with the back of his hand. “It’s hopeless.”_ _

__Bodie responded angrily with more conviction than he felt, “I’ll tell you when it’s hopeless and it isn’t yet, not by a long shot.” He struggled to his feet, settled the rifle back over his shoulder and held out his hand. “On your feet 4.5,” he commanded using his drill sergeant’s voice._ _

__Doyle complied, allowing Bodie to haul him up._ _

__“Now you don’t get a choice,” he snapped as he wrapped his arm around Doyle’s waist, taking his weight. This time the contrary sod didn’t argue._ _

__Glancing up every so often Bodie could see the track was rising in the distance, disappearing over a crest he estimated to be half a mile away but their progress was slow and it was becoming harder to move forward with his cargo becoming progressively heavier until even swapping sides didn’t stop his muscles cramping. His earlier resolve was wavering along with his strength, if the rebels didn’t finish them, Mother Nature surely would and, as if to prove her point, a vulture circled effortlessly overhead. If he was honest he couldn’t see either of them lasting another twenty four hours barring a miracle, especially now he was beginning to feel disorientated himself, so he steered Doyle toward a solitary windblown tree a dozen paces off the track._ _

__Together they dropped heavily into the speckled shade and rolled onto their backs, breathless from the effort, watching as the predator landed in the branches above, settling its wings and eyeing them lazily._ _

__Bodie had no idea where Pietersen had gone. He rolled onto his side, draped his arm across the overheated body alongside him and contemplated never moving again._ _

__“Ray?”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__“What do you reckon we rest a while?”_ _

__“…‘s fine with me.”_ _

__Bodie's eyes closed and his mind drifted despite a pesky voice inside his head warning him, challenging him to stay alert, but his earlier optimism had vanished and the advice was easily ignored. He surrendered, his resolve all but gone. At least he wasn’t alone at the end he thought selfishly, reassured by the feel of the scrawny body in his embrace._ _

__But an irritating scraping noise gnawed at the edge of his consciousness cajoling him back. He rolled onto his back, raising his head to investigate and through slitted eyes saw Pietersen shuffling back toward them. It crossed his befuddled mind that the bigger man was returning out of a sense of loyalty but he quickly dismissed the idea, deciding he must have finally gone mad to have even considered it. Dropping heavily back down, his mind floated again with visions, surreal and dreamlike, swirling like a maelstrom inside his brain, the scuffing noise forgotten until reality hit in the shape of Pietersen’s boot._ _

__“Piss off.”_ _

__“Found us a chopper.”_ _

__Doyle snorted before Bodie’d even had time to grasp the dubious claim._ _

__Cracking an eye open, Bodie found the goliath of a man leaning over him._ _

__“Yeah right, and I’m the King of England,” he scoffed hoarsely, shutting his eyes on the disturbing image. “Find someone else to annoy.”_ _

__“Come on, wakey, wakey Bodie, didn’t figure you to be the quitting type.”_ _

__“Just restin’,” he lied._ _

__He felt another rib tickler, delivered this time with significantly more force._ _

__“Ow, leave off.”_ _

__“Well get up then.”_ _

__Bodie grudgingly rose to his elbows in time to see Pietersen lever Doyle upright and press a canteen into his hand._ _

__“Get this into you Curly, we’re going to need you on your feet for this.”_ _

__Doyle scowled shrugging him off but he took the water anyway. “Must be hallucinating, thought you said a chopper.”_ _

__“’s no fantasy, there’s a bloody great Huey over that crest.”_ _

__Bodie came to life with a jolt._ _

_Unbelievable, he’s serious._

__“Found the rebel’s HQ didn’t I?” Pietersen announced, tipping his head at the ridge he’d just returned from._ _

__Bodie felt the rush of anticipation revive him. “Guards?” he queried reaching for his own flask, no point rationing it now._ _

__“Two on the gate as well as an unarmed pilot who is refuelling and going through pre-flight checks, other than that it’s quiet as a grave yard.”_ _

__“Where’s the rest of them?” Doyle asked. “A bit light on for a HQ isn’t it?”_ _

__“There’ll be more of the bastards inside, I guarantee it,” Pietersen replied. “As a general rule they rest up during the heat of the day and confine their patrolling to dawn and dusk.”_ _

__“It’s risky, waltzing in like that,” Doyle argued. “If the pilot refuses to cooperate we’ll be trapped like rats.”_ _

__Pietersen glanced skyward fixing his sight on the predator above. “If you’d rather have your stomach ripped open and your eyes pecked out be my guest but don’t lose any sleep over the pilot, if he doesn’t play ball slit his throat and I’ll fly the bloody thing.”_ _

__Bodie was instantly back in Scotland…sheltered under an overhang, crouched uncomfortably in the damp leaf litter as chopper blades slapped the air overhead, the memory still raw. How could he have forgotten? But he knew now wasn’t the time to deal with his bitterness so he dragged himself back to the present reminding himself they’d both be dead now if Pietersen had wanted it. He didn’t appreciate the South African’s ego but he was warming to his confidence. “It’s our only chance Ray, we have to go for it.”_ _

__Doyle looked hesitant. “What’s the plan then?”_ _

__Using a twig, Pietersen drew a rough sketch in the dirt, marking the position of the helicopter in relation to the building and the fence surrounding the camp. He made eye contact with Doyle, “It’s your job to persuade the pilot to cooperate but if he doesn’t you know what to do.”_ _

__Doyle tested the action of the flick knife. “He’ll be convinced,” he replied as he pushed the blade back into the handle._ _

__Pietersen continued etching his stick in the dirt. “This is the only brick building in the camp and it overlooks the parade ground, here, and the chopper on the far side, here, so while Curly is making his acquaintance with the pilot, Bodie, you and I will be keeping the natives entertained, front and back, here and here.”_ _

__It was a simple plan but Bodie liked it. He drew the Commander’s handgun from the small of his back, checked the safety and tossed it to his partner who caught it deftly, levelling the sights under his expert eye._ _

__“Okay?” Bodie asked, relieved to see Doyle’s coordination had improved, if only temporarily._ _

__Doyle removed the magazine, tallied the rounds and slammed it home again. “It’ll do.” He clambered to his feet like a man reborn._ _

_You won’t fall if they push._

__Together they made their way up the slope crouching low as they neared the crest, dropping to their bellies at the top. The camp was just as Pietersen had described, enclosed, but not secured by a chain link fence peppered with holes but his eyes were drawn to the Huey glinting in the afternoon sun like an angel of mercy, tantalisingly close yet a suicide mission away. The drone of the petrol generator reassured him there’d be enough fuel to at least get them clear__

At its centre lay a dusty parade ground bordered by rocks of similar size, neatly aligned and painted white. A sizeable breeze block building topped with a flat oxidized roof overlooked the parade ground and the Huey beyond through small unglazed windows fortified by metal bars. A threadbare standard fluttered at the mercy of the wind, proclaiming the camp to be a rebel stronghold. Looking further afield he saw several open sided shelters stacked with crates alongside a dozen huts, not unlike the one they’d spent the night in. Turning his attention back to the brick structure he counted seven military jeeps parked up against the wall indicating at least that many occupants inside but, based on this morning’s attack, he suspected the number would be much higher. It didn’t take a genius to know they were seriously out-numbered

__“We need to get closer,” he said and without waiting for a consensus he was off, picking his path down the soft, lightly vegetated slope to the chain link fence where he propped, ears attuned and eyes constantly roving. Pietersen and Doyle fell in behind him moments later, crouching in close proximity among the low grasses and bushes that bordered the fence line._ _

__From this position he had a clearer view of the lean dark skin man relaxing on a stool in the shade, out of sight of the main building and seemingly immersed in the magazine he held at arm’s length. He didn’t look particularly threatening in his khaki shorts and crisp white shirt but he’d learnt long ago not to judge a book by its cover. Doyle, case in point, was often underestimated until he went hands on, at which point the villains quickly realised their mistake. He glanced at the stroppy bugger and a smile played on his lips, watching him in full flight was one of life’s little pleasures but now wasn’t the time for reminiscing._ _

__He shifted his attention to the two men outside the gates scuffing the dirt under their boots. Both wore an ammo belt slung over one shoulder and an assault rifle over the other but they seemed relaxed, sloppy even, more interested in rolling tobacco than keeping an effective look out._ _

___ _

__He pointed to a chest high stack of tyres midway between the chopper and the parade ground in line of sight of the breeze block building. “I’ll prop there while Doyle gets our boarding passes." He turned to Pietersen, "You right to unhook the fuel line and deal with the goons on the gate?”_ _

__The South African’s mouth curled into a confident smile, “Easy my friend.”_ _

__Surprisingly, the big man’s familiarity didn't offend nearly as much as it would have done twenty four hours earlier._ _

__“Ready Ray?”_ _

__“Yeah, take me home mate, I’ve had enough sun to last me a lifetime.”_ _

__Bodie chuckled, at this point even the prospect of facing Cowley was beginning to looking attractive. He rocked forward onto the balls of his feet steeling himself for his dash across no man's land but a thought pulled him up sharply. He locked eyes with Pietersen. “What’s say you give me the name now, just in case?”_ _

__The big man sniggered. “It’s my insurance remember? You’ll just have to make sure I’m on board when that baby lifts off.”_ _

__Bodie lowered his voice, “You’ll be left to rot if you don’t watch his back whether I get the name or not.”_ _

__“Jesus, lighten up Bodie, I know the score, just make sure you hold up your end of ...”_ _

__Frustrated with a conversation that was going nowhere, Bodie took off, squeezing through the gap in the fence,silently working his way toward the stack of tyres, aware that behind him Doyle was making his move on the pilot and Pietersen was at his back. He resisted turning to check their progress._ _

__He dropped heavily in behind his makeshift shelter, stifling a sneeze as the smell of sun hardened rubber irritated his sinuses. A gap between the tyres at waist height proved perfect for sighting his rifle and after feeding it through and checking his view he settled in and waited._ _

__A bead of sweat clung to a lock of hair irritating his forehead until gravity won and it trickled down, skirting his eye and snagging his stubble. He flicked his tongue out, savouring the saltiness, a reminder of how dehydrated he’d become. He blinked, and blinked again as perspiration stung his eyes, but in that precise moment the faded door he’d been focussed on swung inward and a tall dark man in military fatigues filled the opening, leaning comfortably against the frame, his hands cupped around the cigarette he was lighting. The glow intensified as he drew back sharply, flicked the match and lifted his head, exhaling slowly toward the sky. He stared out across the compound toward the stack of tyres and the Huey beyond._ _

____Bodie slid his finger onto the trigger making a slight adjustment to the trajectory, his calm controlled movements at odds with his racing heart.

_Time’s up Ray._

The smoking man stepped casually into the light, swinging his rifle from his shoulder, propping it against the wall seemingly preoccupied by a conversation with someone inside. 

__Then, when the noisy generator suddenly choked and stopped Bodie tensed, sure the unsettling silence would attract the attention of the guards on the gate or smoking man but surprisingly there was no interest shown from either quarter. Thankful for small miracles he rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers keeping his muscles limber and the blood flowing, things were about to get interesting._ _

___Come on…_ _ _

__Then, as if he were both dreaming and willing it, he registered the heavenly sound of the Huey kicking into life._ _

__Shimmying from a kneel to a squat, his lower body was rigid, coiled and ready to spring, disengaged from his motionless upper half which was still focussed on killing. Fight or flight? He decided he'd have a bet each way._ _

__Automatic gunfire barked from the goons on the gate. He trusted Pietersen to have their measure _and_ Doyle’s back because a handgun and a knife were no match for an assault rifle. _ _

__Smoking man’s head snapped up and he reached for his weapon but Bodie was ready._ _

__The man jerked, dropping his cigarette as he crumpled, the AK surprisingly accurate over the distance despite its knockers. Coldly detached, Bodie, shot the next man to fill the void but his efforts did nothing to stem the tide of angry vipers escaping the nest, spitting fire with murderous intent as they worked their way to outside cover. Pandora’s Box had been split open and all hell was breaking loose._ _

__Bodie’s first magazine emptied quickly, too quickly he realised, but adrenaline had got the better of him so he dragged the empty weapon back into his lap, burning his hand on the super heated barrel as he slammed his last magazine into the receiver._ _

__Glancing behind he caught sight of a familiar profile ensconced in the Huey's cockpit and his spirits lifted, at least the jammy sod was in once piece and for that he was grateful. Pietersen was nowhere to be seen._ _

__It was time to leg it before he was out flanked so, keeping his head down, he hoisted the rifle to the top of the barrier and with no precision required, snatched at the trigger._ _

__Cold sweat robbed him of rational thought when the weapon failed to fire. Rote memory took over and his training kicked in, there’d be no blind panic, not yet anyway. Hauling the rifle to his core as he’d done a hundred times on the range, he ejected the magazine, tilted the breech and shook it savagely, becoming increasingly rattled as the seconds passed and the blockage failed to shift._ _

____Okay, time to panic…_ _ _ _

__With his rifle as useless as a chocolate teapot he made the decision to ditch it and run. Sluggish out of the blocks, he quickly gained momentum, spurred on by Doyle’s frantic beckoning, urging him faster with one hand while he held the pistol levelled at the pilot with the other._ _

__Utterly exposed, he ran like the clappers, ducking and weaving as lumps of lead whizzed perilously close, convinced that every stride would be his last and then, when it wasn’t, and the gap between him and the Huey narrowed, his hopes lifted, just maybe the luck of the Irish was with him after all. Focussed entirely on the chopper and Doyle inside it he nearly missed Pietersen lying prone in the dirt, forward of the aircraft, providing cover as though he had all the ammunition and time in the world._ _

__As Bodie passed him ten yards out, the big man surged to his feet pausing briefly to fire back over his shoulder before following hot on Bodie’s heels._ _

__Ahead, the chopper hovered just off the ground like a tethered kite and Bodie knew for certain Doyle’s gun was the only thing keeping the Huey from climbing. Drawing closer now with only half a dozen strides to the skid he could scarcely believe he’d made it until a familiar burning sensation drilled deep into his forearm. He stumbled as his brain dealt with the shock yet reminded him to keep moving unless he wanted more of the same, delivering a well-timed spike of adrenaline that propelled him onto the skid where Doyle hauled him roughly inside. He collapsed heavily onto the hard metal floor, wheezing and bleeding._ _

__Doyle’s worried face came sharply into focus._ _

__“You’re hit,” he said stating the obvious._ _

__Doyle’s words were barely out when a spray of bullets tore into fuselage aft of the cabin causing the Huey to lurch violently. Doyle disappeared from sight but, lightheaded and dazed, Bodie struggled to make sense of it until in a moment of clarity he remembered..._ _

__Pietersen!_ _

__On impulse he flipped onto his stomach in time to see the bigger man leap, forsaking his rifle to seize Bodie’s outstretched arm. They connected solidly, one forearm wrapped tightly around the other but when the Huey pitched again Pietersen’s feet slipped from the skid and the human chain dangled precariously._ _

“I’ve got you,” Bodie screamed into the buffeting wind as the pilot angled the aircraft away from the gunfight causing Pietersen to swing, putting even more strain on Bodie’s injured arm and their tenuous link. He couldn’t know if he’d been heard over the din of the blades and he tightened his grip, letting the man below know he had him but his wound bled freely, greasing his arm like a fireman’s pole. Pietersen’s weight pulled painfully, he hadn’t a hope of hauling him up one handed. 

__The bigger man, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion and was trying to bring his other arm up, aiming to grab him higher, above his wound but the chopper’s erratic movements caused him to swing like a pendulum again. The blood flowed slippery and wet, the rate increasing with the strain. Bodie gritted his teeth in agony._ _

__After several attempts to hoist himself up, Pietersen stopped struggling and looked up. Bodie stared down, wind whipping through his hair, tugging at his clothing and he saw resigned acceptance cross that hard face but it made him even more determined and in a reckless move he let go of the seat strut that anchored him and stretched down to forge a stronger, two handed link._ _

__“Hold on!”_ _

__But Pietersen’s bulk dragged Bodie slithering forward out over the edge until his upper body dangled dangerously into the ether. Frantically he scissored his legs searching for something to hook his ankles around, to give him purchase but the smooth checker plate floor offered nothing and he had sudden visions of following Pietersen out of the chopper to his death, thirty feet below._ _

__Patchy words were registering despite his preoccupation with the unfolding drama, “Let ‘im go…not worth it…take you with....” Doyle’s angry outburst was broken over the racket. Doyle was right, he shouldn’t be risking his life and yet..._ _

__Torn by old hatred and new loyalties, he was fighting himself now, how far would he go to save this man?_ _

__Pietersen slid further, blood now dripping down onto his face but Bodie stubbornly held on, not willing to let go even though he could feel he was approaching the point of no return._ _

___Would he die for this man?_ _ _

__Then, suddenly Doyle’s hands were around his ankles halting his deadly slide and in that iron clad grip he felt his salvation but it came at a cost; the pilot was now unsupervised and could do what he pleased without a weapon to his head._ _

__Fifty feet and rising._ _

__“Give…it…up,” Doyle screamed hoarsely. “He’ll…take you...”_ _

__“Can’t,” he yelled into the wind with no time to explain. And what could he explain anyway? How could he explain the strange solidarity that had developed between them, this callous killer and him? Regardless of their past, Pietersen had held up his end of the agreement and now he was duty bound to reciprocate._ _

__If Pietersen could just hang on until they were out of firing range, they could set down and haul him in but at that precise moment their bloodied connection was lost and the heavy man plunged, scrambling desperately until his fall was halted by Bodie’s fingertips but it was a temporary reprieve and they both knew it._ _

__The South African looked up and their eyes met. Bodie stared at him, at those cold grey eyes, saw them close briefly, the mouth thin as he accepted the inevitable. The panicked expression that had been there moments earlier had faded, replaced by resignation, the face hardening with purpose once more. He began shouting. Two words…the same two words repeated with urgency. Bodie concentrated, trying to read his lips, straining to decipher the dying declaration while there was still time._ _

__Bo…Bob..._ _

___…S…Spencer_ _ _

“Bob Spencer?" His mind, completely focussed on the life and death struggle, made no immediate connection with the name but Pietersen gave a faint nod.

__Their blood slicked grip was weakening and painful spasms shot down Bodie’s arm right to his fingertips. It happened almost in slow motion, the parting, the man seemed to hang suspended as Bodie’s fingers hopelessly scrabbled for their lost grip. His eyes held though, he didn’t look away._ _

__Pietersen winked a fraction of a second before plummeting stoically to his death and as Bodie closed his eyes against the grizzly sight, he touched his forehead in a silent salute._ _

__Before he had time to register his own precarious situation, the chopper gained height and banked making it easier for Doyle to haul him back to the safety._ _

__“That was…bloody…stupid,” Doyle shouted between breaths, his face was like thunder._ _

__“Shut it.” Bodie ground out, slamming the cabin door closed, securing it with his uninjured arm moments before collapsing light headed to the floor._ _

__The crisis was over but not the fight and he could see the cogs ticking over in Doyle’s head. “You damn well nearly died, why, why risk your life for the likes of him?” Doyle’s voice was rough._ _

__Bodie bit his lip. “He saved your skin you know.”_ _

__“And that had nothing to do with saving his own?” Doyle shot back._ _

__“Don’t expect you to understand.”_ _

__“Try me.”_ _

__“Not now, Ray, just drop it,” he pleaded, suddenly aware of every ache and pain in his body._ _

__“You’re bleeding everywhere.”_ _

__Bodie pressed his hand to his wound and tipped his head at the pilot. “Better watch ‘e doesn’t turn back.”_ _

__The man swivelled in his seat, “Not going back for all the tea in India,” he announced in broken English, poking his finger through a hole in the perspex windscreen. He eyed the pistol in Doyle’s hand._ _

__“It’s China, all the tea in China,” Doyle corrected him._ _

__“Eh?"_ _

__Doyle’s mouth quirked, “Forget it. Got enough fuel to get to Nairobi?”_ _

__The man smiled nervously, the destination an obvious relief. “They don't pay me enough for this."_ _

__Doyle winked at him, “Relax, we’re the good guys, just fly to Nairobi and you'll get no grief from us.”_ _

__The pilot signalled thumbs up, settled the headphones over his head and turned his attended to the instruments._ _

__Bodie felt the chopper tilt onto a new heading as he closed his eyes. “Got it Ray?” he whispered, unsure if he’d said it out loud._ _

__“Yeah, leave it with me.”_ _

__Despite the pain and turbulence, Bodie slid happily into oblivion, content Doyle had his back._ _

__******_ _

__Bodie’s first conscious thought was how peaceful everything suddenly was, no thumping rotor blade, no nauseating movement and no hard metal floor rattling his teeth. His second was the amazing softness cushioning his body followed closely by the realisation he was cocooned in a comfortable bed. The heat and the sweat had gone. His forearm felt tight with the pressure of a bandage and a slight flex of his other confirmed the presence of an IV but it seemed too peaceful to be a hospital._ _

__A gentle breeze caressed his face and music played softly in the background, _not a hospital then?_ _ _

__He opened his eyes and blinked in the bright light taking in the familiar surroundings of Bancroft’s Nairobi bungalow. The room wasn’t the only familiar thing, the figure in the bed alongside his, propped up on a pile of pillows reading a book, was a welcome sight. The spring was back in his curls. Bodie smiled and closed his eyes, all was right with the world._ _

__…or was it?_ _

__The Scottish brogue was unmistakable. “Aye, I’ll get to the truth out of them.”_ _

____Cowley? Here?_ _ _ _

__Bodie cringed and flicked his eyes toward Doyle who'd already dropped his book into his lap and was feigning sleep._ _

_Good thinking mate._

__He joined in on the ruse, not ready to face the old man just yet, not until he’d had time to process the events of the last seventy two hours. He’d need to be clear in his own mind before he had that conversation. Cowley could wait, another few hours wouldn't change anything. His mind drifted to Bob Spencer. Who’d have thought the bastard had it in him? Christ, if he ever caught sight of him again…_ _

__Immediately regretting clenching his fists, he pushed the image of the weedy, bespectacled twat to the back of his mind, he could do without the pain the traitor triggered but his thoughts reluctantly took him in the direction of another subject he’d been trying to avoid. He wasn’t at all sure of his motives when it came to Pietersen. Cowley was likely to assume he’d deliberately thrown Pietersen to his death, murdered him, but with Doyle as a witness he’d have to accept the truth…wouldn’t he? He tensed, readying himself for the old man's inevitable wrath. And anyway, the South African bastard got his just deserts for what he’d put them through and if it hadn’t been for their bloody agreement he would have gladly tossed him out. No question about it. But a little voice insidiously reminded him…he saved Doyle._ _

__Doyle. Now that was a different challenge altogether. Convincing him why he’d done what he did wasn’t going to be a walk in the park either. The snarky bugger would never understand the merc's code, how the hell could he expect him to? His police training had taught him to view the world in black and white, not murky shades of stinking grey, but Bodie's own colourful past had taught him differently, taught him the value of _the_ code when things were desperate. At least he’d proven to himself, if no one else, it was possible to find honour in the worst of them. _ _

__He heard the old man’s exasperated sigh followed by a muttered curse and receding footsteps.__

When he was sure it was safe he turned his head to his right and saw the biggest grin smiling back at him and he knew then he’d got it right.

___ _

___ _

___**I owe a huge debt of gratitude to both my wonderful beta’s, Jaicen5 and PMGMS, without whom this story would never have come to fruition. It has been a 3 year struggle and there’s been times when I’ve seriously felt like packing it in and if it hadn’t been for their encouragement I likely would have. I confess to continuing to tweak things even after they’d given me their thoughts and suggestions so any errors are definitely mine!**_ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Rift Valley fever is an illness that is seen from time to time in Central Africa. The symptoms Doyle displayed are reasonably accurate and are based on research however I confess to having used some poetic licence with incubation times and transmission method. The virus can be fatal. 
> 
> According to Google, the Jackleberry tree is used by bush physicians to treat symptoms such as Doyle presented with.


End file.
